Wrath of the Lost King

by thelaw316

Garrosh Hellscream's attempt to manipulate the timeline didn't go according to plan. Gul'dan, more cunning and powerful, attempts to create a new timeline with a weaker Alliance being led by a hot-tempered prince. However, time has a way of working itself out.

Wrath of the Lost King

Part 1: A More Perfect Union

Gul'dan, for once, showed the slightest hint of panic. The Iron Horde was not tempered enough to withstand the force of two armies. "Two armies…" he says aloud, a confident grin spreading across his face. Yes… that's what he needs. Not just an Iron Horde will do. If that dead Hellscream boy can make a pact with the dragons (or so he claimed), so too can the most powerful warlock in history of all the worlds. Kil'rogg already enhanced the Iron Horde when Grommash was too weak to see their path, for all the good it did him.

Interesting. But Garrosh can't divulge his secrets anymore, since the coward Thrall killed him. Of course, that limitation doesn't apply to beings with the strength of Gul'dan. Stepping through a portal of fel energy, he emerges on the other side of Draenor in the middle of Nagrand on a cloudless night. A great stone hand grasps the body of Garrosh Hellscream. Such potential he had. Such a will to succeed. Such an unbreakable will at that. Gul'dan held his hand aloft and started channeling the darkest magic he could muster. The silence of the plains was exactly what he needed to concentrate. He closed his eyes and saw the world around him through his magic, and there, lingering above the body of fallen Hellscream, was a single red sphere. A soul—a very angry soul. Magic that was forbidden to others was child's play to Gul'dan and with the sweep of his hand, the soul reentered Garrosh Hellscream's body.

Garrosh's scream of fury cut through the night. "Face me, coward!"

Gul'dan's cold chuckle was his only response. "You have but a few minutes on this world, warrior. You can seek the vengeance you cannot gain, or you can talk to me again. I may even be more civil than last time."

Garrosh struggled in the great stone fingers, but it was useless. "I owe you nothing but a swift death, necromancer."

Gul'dan snorted. "The kind the shaman Thrall gave to you? A proud warrior, the one who held Gorehowl… and yet the one that falls to a shaman too weak to lead the Horde, the way I hear it. Tell me about your world."

Hellscream remained silent for a moment before responding. "I owe you nothing. Grant me my revenge and I will tell you what you seek."

Gul'dan nodded. "But speak quickly. Your spirit is too strong to be bound to your broken body. Tell me about your death. Tell me about your world. But not of the Horde."

Garrosh perked a brow before smiling. "Ah. I see. Fight a war on two fronts by taking control of both fronts. Our world always understated your genius, Gul'dan, even if I do not agree with the cowardice of your methods."

The warlock bowed his head. "With your help, Thrall will not live to see his son become a man. The Alliance will break and a true orc—perhaps even your father—will lead your world's Horde to domination of Azeroth and the worlds beyond."

"And for you?"

Gul'dan bowed again. "They understate your intelligence as well. Let us say that there are realms of magic not yet known to me. You have seen it first hand and I want to know how it works."

Garrosh couldn't help but laugh. "You wish to learn the magic of the timelines? Oh, wonderful. I will help you if only to know your failure."

"Your death, then."

"The coward Thrall challenged me to Mak'gora. There was no shaman to bless Gorehowl, but I did not need the blessing of the elements to kill such a weakling."

"Apparently."

Garrosh snarled at Gul'dan. "He betrayed his blood. One weapon. No armor. To the death. Those are the rules our ancestors established. Though he held his precious Doomhammer, he called upon the elements. A flash of lightning ended the fight and my life. He is a coward in life and he will be a coward until his death."

Gul'dan didn't particularly care for honor, tradition, and the squabbling of axes and hammers, but he had a game to play. "I wish that I could not believe such cowardice from him. Striking down the last Hellscream, the only true warchief since his father reigned… he must feel so accomplished. Tell me, young Hellscream, before the magic fades. Tell me of the Alliance. Tell me how they came to be as they are."

After what seemed like hours, Garrosh Hellscream's body twitched one last time before going limp. Gul'dan had we he needed aside from one crucial thing: one of these bronze dragons. They obviously wouldn't just come to his call. He hated to admit it, but he needed help. The dark night once again flared fel green as portal after portal opened up around him. The faces of his brothers in the Shadow Council were concealed, in part by night and in part by their hoods, but he didn't need to see their faces to see who was there and who wasn't. "Your quick response is noted, brothers. I require your service to return a rather unusual soul to life." He pointed to the rolling hills of Nagrand. "Up there somewhere is the body of a fallen Bronze dragon. Those of you familiar with the dragonflights know that those are the ones in charge of the timeways. The Iron Horde is failing and I require a new tool to deliver us to the Legion."

There was silence before a single voice of dissent spoke up. "You wish to raise a being that can control time? With respect, master, that plan is somewhat… unorthodox."

"If the child of Hellscream can do it, so can the most powerful being that has ever lived."

"He is dead."

"That has never stopped me before and it won't now."

"Again, with respect, why would you take the word of a dead failure? What risk does he have speaking to you on time you granted his broken body?"

Gul'dan sneered, but gave a courteous smile. "Identify yourself."

"I… I am only asking." The hooded orc bowed submissively.

"You do not have to, Shar'lak, I was merely giving you a chance to name yourself before your death."

He fell to his knees. "That is entirely unnecessary, master! I simply do not want to waste talent such as yours on a task that may not lead to the Legion's triumph!"

"Stop groveling. An orc does not beg, especially not for such a pathetic life." As he raised his hand, glowing with dark energy, to take Shar'lak's soul, he stopped. "Actually… you can serve me still, if you wish."

"O-of course, master! Anything!"

"Let's go."

Night was beginning to give way to morning, but Gul'dan didn't care. Even if someone saw him, they'd never stop him now. They stood above the corpse of the great bronze dragon. Well, he was once great. His body was twisted between images of an orc, a human, some manner of elf, and a smaller bronze dragon. It was grotesque. It was beautiful. It was a work of cruel art. But it wasn't his. "I can't sense his soul around us, master."

Shar'lak. Again. "No. You cannot. The weakling Khadgar and his allies slew his spirit to put him at peace. But that peace is at an end. Join me now, brothers!" He raised his hands, fel energies coursing out of his fingers. Within a second, the others in the Shadow Council joined him, though one hesitated more than the others. They channeled for what felt like dozens of minutes before nothing happened. "Stop." Gul'dan and the others did immediately. "Without Teron'gor or Ner'zhul, this magic requires a bit more… creativity." He thought in silence for a moment. "Yes. Yes… in the world I wish to go to, Ner'zhul is honored. He was the first Lich King and ruler of the Scourge, a legion of undead minions. He also corrupted and ruled the second and he possesses the third, who tries to keep his will at bay. The band of so-called-heroes killed Ner'zhul. His destiny will never come to pass here. But he can be greater in their world, even greater than he was. More importantly, his memory can serve the Legion and end the pathetic Horde and the weakling Alliance. Shar'lak!"

"Y-yes, master!"

"You wish to serve?"
"Y-yes, master!"

"Then you will." Gul'dan drew his dagger and slit Shar'lak's throat wide open. The look of shock never left the orc's face as he bled out. With one fluid motion, a purple orb coalesced in the air above the fallen orc. "Your service is appreciated. Brothers!" They all started channeling energy into the sphere. It pulsated and grew with every second of dark energy pumped into it. "Steady… steady… now!" In perfect unison, they moved—moreso dragged—the orb down into the broken body of the former dragon. There was no sound other than the labored breathing of the council and their leader. Suddenly, a cough. Gul'dan had a look of proud astonishment as the broken body of Kairoz twitched back to life.

"Oh, no. What have I done? What have I done?" Remorseful tears filled the words of Kairoz.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Of course I do! Why else would I show regret?"
"Because your aiding of the Hellscream boy led to his death? Because you have changed nothing now that Kil'rogg drank the blood? Or because you know what I will ask of you?"

Kairoz let out a bitter chuckle. "No. In forty seven of the fifty two timelines I see, I say yes. In four of the others, you torture me and I say yes."

"And in the last one?"

Kairoz points behind them all. "He comes to save me once more."

"The darkest magic always was your signature, Gul'dan," came the proud voice of Khadgar, backed by many of the Alliance and Horde's mightiest heroes.

"Weakness was always yours, wizard. Delay him, brothers! Die for our lords if you must!" He leaned down and grabbed Kairoz roughly by the arm as the Shadow Council hurled their magic at the would-be heroes. "You know where I wish to go?"

"I do."

"Take me there."

"I won't."

Gul'dan's eyes flashed briefly, and in that span, Kairoz screamed in anguish. "I often tell my foes that their souls are mine. It is rare that I am being literal with that threat, dragon. Will you aid me?"

"I do not have a choice."

"Then take me to the Lich King!" A bronze bubble enveloped them briefly, and just as a barrage of ice came down around them, they were gone. Most of the Shadow Council fled, but Khadgar held one by the collar.

"Let us return to our camp. This one has information for us."

A frozen world appeared before Gul'dan. A cave filled with vengeful whispers and the chill of death is where they landed. "Is this your Icecrown?"

"No," Kairoz replied with a weak laugh. "This is not. You asked for the Lich King, I gave you the Lich King. He's right there."

"That is not Ner'zhul! That is a sword! I've had enough of your treachery." Green flame danced between Gul'dan's fingers as he prepared to rake it across the mind, body, and soul of Kairoz. This fool thought he was so clever, he would pay for—

"Lad, I dunnae think ya should be doin' this. Yer reckless! Yer father's gonna lose his mind once he sees whatcha did to his fleet! We should just go!"

"No, Muradin. No price is too great to save my people. The Menethils have served this kingdom for generations, no matter the cost. I must do the same."

"Menethil…?" Gul'dan whispered aloud. "Hellscream mentioned that name. Oh… this is perfect." He looked down at Kairoz. "All of this amounted to nothing. The Alliance will still crumble." The fire that was meant for Kairoz now had a new target. Gul'dan pulled back his arm to throw it, but just as he released, Kairoz grabbed on to his arm, throwing off his aim. It sailed far above the heads of the human and the dwarf and collapsed the cave in front of them.

"It's an omen, lad! It's a bloody omen! We have ta return to Lordaeron. Yer pappy can sort alla this out. Listen to reason, lad."

There was silence for just a moment. "You're right, Muradin. I'm not proud of what I've done, but I've done it for this kingdom. It's time I better myself for it. Let's return to camp and get away from this cursed place. Northrend was not meant for humans."

"Or dwarves."

"Of course." Heavy, plated boots walked away from the cave until there was nothing but shifting rubble and whispers in the darkness.

Gul'dan's raged boiled over. "You think you are so clever."

"I know I am. You fail in fifty one of the fifty two timelines. I die in each of them in a matter of moments. You are trapped. You have no home. You have no Horde. You have failed, warlock. How tastes the bitterness of defeat?"

Gul'dan howled with fury and closed his fingers around Kairoz's neck. As the life began to fade from his eyes, Gul'dan stopped. "I will have to ask you the same thing as you die." He stood up and went back to channeling that same dark magic he had relied on so heavily so far. "Shar'lak, your master still requires your services."

Kairoz's eyes went wide as the life expired from him once more. "Oh no… not… this one…" The amalgamation of souls had been spent, leaving one tiny purple sliver slowly dripping out of his mouth.

"Shar'lak, do you hear me?"

"Yessss…" came the whispered response.

"The treachery of Kairoz has backfired. We are in the past of the invaders' timeline. I require your service to take it in the name of our lords."

"I require a body," demanded Shar'lak.

"Know your place, whelp. You will accept what I give you and nothing more." The glowing soul pulsated a moment as Gul'dan poured more energy into it.

Shar'lak hissed in pain, but remained defiant. "You need me as much as I need you, great one. I have seen the knowledge in Kairoz. I know this timeline. I know how to get us home. And I know you are not welcome here. You can get me a body, or you can die in this timeline. I do not care."

He had a point, though Gul'dan would not admit it. After long consideration, he nodded. "Fine. Brace yourself, Shar'lak." He began twisting his hands around, preparing to move the soul to a new host. There were skeletons here and there, and while not ideal, they were sturdy enough to move him around, and if he was caught, there'd always be more. But then the scurrying of little claws caught his attention. "You want a body? You've got one." Gul'dan reached out as quickly as a viper and grabbed the source of the scurrying—a large white rat—and before Shar'lak could fight back, his soul entered the rat. If a rodent could manage a treacherous glare, this one was now managing it. "I will give you a body, perhaps even a human one, but you have to lure it back here. For now, there is rubble that your tiny frame can wriggle through that a proper one cannot. Bring me back the body you wish and you shall have it. Are we understood?"

The rat nodded, his teeth grazing Gul'dan's finger ever so slightly. Had he just been bitten? He would have to deal with that when the time came.

Five years later, the citizens overlooked the harbor. The grand opening of the trade routes between the Kaldorei and the kingdoms of man had finally come. The city had to grow to make the harbor fit, but they managed. Costly war after costly war finally led to peace, which led to prosperity, which led to negotiations and new alliances. An excited hum buzzed through the ears of every man, woman, child, elf, dwarf, and gnome in attendance. After all these years of death and suffering, the ships leaving this port represented the first generation of humans that could give birth to men who wouldn't be asked to go to war.

"Hear ye! Hear ye! Silence for the royals! Silence for the royals!" Immediately, out of respect to their leaders, every voice stopped. There were two ships docked at the port: one of elven build, long, low, and meant for silent speed; and one built by man, meant to display power. This wasn't just any ship, though—this was a huge icebreaker. The symbol of power wasn't lost on the crowd, who stood in awe of the great icebreaker that had once broken through the frozen sea towards Northrend on that doomed expedition. The crowd's hands came together in uproarious applause as the captain's quarters opened.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your king and queen, Arthas and Jaina Menethil!" They were a striking couple—a balance of raw power and elegance; brawn and brilliance. Arthas wore the traditional Lordaeronian knight's armor of white and silver, though he added a golden crown and cloak, as he was the king. With his pale skin and long golden hair, it was as if he was Lordaeron himself. Jaina, meanwhile, took a more humble approach. Though she was now the queen of the strongest kingdom on Azeroth, she still wore her purple Kirin Tor cloak and robes, though her staff had been adorned with silver and white runes. Alongside them were their usual entourage: Uther the Lightbringer, mentor to King Arthas and leader of the Knights of the Silver Hand (though it was often joked that the silver had to do with his prematurely grey mane of hair and beard); Sir Bolvar Fordragon, ruler of the new realm of Stormwind and general of Lordaeron's army; Muradin Bronzebeard, leader of the dwarves and Arthas' main advisor; and recent mainstay of the docks, Lady Tyrande Whisperwind, leader of the Kaldorei, Priestess of the Moon, and the tallest woman many of the Lordaeronians had ever seen (they still didn't quite understand the elven ways, so "Wow, she's tall!" was the extent of what many of the humans could grasp of her otherworldly elegance and wisdom). However, there were new faces emerging with them—also clearly elves of some sort, but whereas the Tyrande lady was sort of purple, these ones looked like humans. Were those the ones that helped in the war?

"Ladies and gentlemen. People of Lordaeron, Darnassus, Ironforge, and every town and hamlet in between," began King Arthas, his deep voice commanding reverence, "We thank you for joining us on this, one of the brightest days in the history of this world. Grom Hellscream, his seer, Thrall, and the rest of the Horde maintain an uneasy peace with our people. I can say that today marks not only the first day of a new friendship with an ancient and powerful race, the Kaldorei, but as of right now, it has been two years since the army of Lordaeron and the Orcish Horde have fought in a coordinated battle!" There was a smattering of applause—in truth, many people didn't know what to do without wars to fight and green men to hate. "In the years since I returned, I have had much to think about. I was cursed with foolish pride when I left the kingdom. Though history has proven to be on my side in a few regards, in many, it was not. I stood trial. Though Uther declared me redeemed in the eyes of the Light, I served my time wandering through the cities of man, trying to learn about all of you and the lives I may have stolen from many of our brave soldiers. I learned that this kingdom is above the sacrifice of one or many, but rather it's about the unity and bonds therein. And it's in that regard that I now turn the floor over to your queen, the amazing Jaina Proudmoore."

The cheering for her was just as loud. Many of the citizens thanked her for bringing their prince—now king—back to sanity. "Thank you once again, noble citizens. I speak to you today with a conflicted mind. We are moving forward with what should be untold prosperity for all of us. And it's as you gain another queen—and many other allies—that I have to announce my departure." There was a collective gasp and a few sounds of dissent. "Now now. Not only do I leave you in the hands of your king, his father, and the Ladies before me now, I will return as the archmage of the Kirin Tor, uniting the might of dwarven iron, gnomish technology, elven bows, human cunning, and the secrets of the arcane. We will not only prosper as a society in peace, but we will have the power to ensure that peace will remain for many generations to come." The crowd came back around to her. It was hard to argue that blowing things up with both gunpowder and fireballs was pretty awesome. "And that is more important now than ever, because when I come back, it will be with your future king or queen." It took the crowd a moment to realize she didn't mean some person, but that she was with child. At that, the crowd went wild. Jaina gave a little bow, her blonde hair—as golden as Arthas'—falling out of her cloak. "While the duty of a mother is not to be understated, I will be relying on the fine people of this kingdom to show our child what 'good' looks like. Once I leave for my work with the Kirin Tor, my waking moments will be dedicated to finding people corrupting the forces of magic and those who seek to threaten your families by corrupting the power that surrounds us now. And speaking of power," she said with a coy undertone, "It is my honor to introduce someone who has been on this planet longer than most—if not all—of our bloodlines. Lady Whisperwind has graciously agreed to open trade routes from the Great World Tree in Kalimdor, along with many of her strategic outposts throughout the continent, all in the name of friendship. Ladies and gentlemen, Tyrande Whisperwind."

When Tyrande stood, she towered over the rest of the procession. Her wispy white robes made her almost seem like a spirit floating above the rest of them. It was an interesting contrast—the white, gold, and silver plate of the men, bulky and meant to intimidate and protect as compared to her purple skin, teal hair, and elegant robes, and yet it was obvious all of those hardened military men not only regarded her as an equal, but perhaps even feared her. She spoke common fluently, perhaps picked up over the many centuries she had been alive, but she maintained a slight accent. "Thank you, Lady Proudmoore, King Menethil, and all of our honored guests. For longer than I care to remember, my people have been at war with the trolls that call your orcish enemies their allies. Though our skill is unmatched in combat, their numbers are seemingly endless and their brutality cannot be understated. After only a few skirmishes together with your army, we have been able to stop the needless slaughter of the Kaldorei people. Many people think our immortality means we cannot be killed—this is just not true. We do not fall to old age, but a sword or arrow to the heart will end my life as quickly as it would end yours. I will be staying in the city for the next several nights and I would love to meet every single one of you and answer any of your questions. I do wish my husband could be here to join me, as I see many eager faces out there," she paused a moment for the giggling of the crowd, "but unfortunately at our age, when you find out there is a power you don't know about or something you can learn, you go learn it. If you find out nothing else from our friendship, please take that from me—never stop learning. We will all die someday, myself included, but our ideas, thoughts, and memories will carry on forever. Elune go with you, and Ishnu-dal-dieb!" For all they knew, she just cursed them, but they cheered anyway as King Menethil took the forefront again.

"Many of you have probably noticed the other Ladies up here with us. During the beginning of our campaign, we relied on the arcane to save us when all else failed. When our strength wasn't enough, speed stepped in in the form of the Windrunner family. I present to you our other newest allies, Lady Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger General of Silvermoon, and her sister Alleria of the Farstriders!" There was another outburst of applause. "Portals will be open to Silvermoon City and Quel'thalas at the conclusion of this ceremony. Last, but not least, someone that many of you will never see again—and if you don't, she's certainly doing her job well. The new head of our SI:7 division, Valeera Sanguinar!" She gave a curt wave and retreated back into the captain's quarters immediately. "Well, at this rate, you'll be running into more elves than humans in our streets. Now, I'd like to close with a moment of silence for our lost or fallen. Since this is a day of forging new friendships, I'd like to dedicate this one to someone special. I had a best friend when I was training. I haven't seen him in many years. Though many of you would probably want to embellish my strength or prowess, in truth, I was only ever second best. Remember the fallen in your hearts. For me, I will remember my best friend, Varian Wrynn. Wherever you are, brother, you are missed." A solemn moment of silence passed. "Thank you. Glory to the Light, glory to Lordaeron, and glory to the newly formed Alliance!" He waved a moment to the crowd as they gave him uproarious applause. He made his way back to the captain's quarters followed by the rest of the entourage. They arranged themselves around a worn, splintered wooden table—nothing fancy in this ship.

Jaina sat next to him, an optimistic grin on her face. "That wasn't so bad."

Back in the darkness of the ship, Arthas looked worn and weary, but he did his best to sound better than he looked. "That it wasn't, and I'm not sure what they are more excited about—our child or our Alliance."

"When didja plan on tellin' me about it, lad?" Muradin chimed in, trying to sound sad but failing miserably behind his smile. "Just promise me ya name it Murry or Muradina. Deal?"

Arthas grew solemn again. "I was thinking of naming them Varian or Annie."

Jaina perked a quizzical brow. "Annie?"

"Antondias. He's done much for you over the years, but I'll be damned if we have a son if I allow myself to be intimidated by his name every time I want to teach the boy something."

She blushed. "You embarrass your queen in front of your honored guests. And they say kings can't be romantic."

Bolvar cleared his throat. "If it pleases his majesty, perhaps the foreplay can be saved for her majesty's return from Dalaran and for now, we can focus on the status report."

"Of course, Lord Fordragon. In fact, you may begin." Arthas could have a chilly tone when he felt his underlings overstepped. This was one of those times. Though Bolvar was bigger, older, stronger, and a more respected military man, he noticeably slunk back in his seat.

"Uh. Very well, your majesty. The city of Stormwind remains largely unharassed by anything more than bandits, thieves, wildlife, and murlocs. There are occasional orc scouts and tracking parties, but currently our biggest issue is the man called VanCleef."

King Arthas perked a brow. "The architect? What about him?"

"He's a mason, actually, and after the nobles refused to pay him after he and the others repaired the damage the orcs did, they rather obviously rebelled."
Arthas had a look of outrage. "As well they should! Which nobles voted against the payment?"

"One moment, sir…" Bolvar turned to his squire, a teen girl named Bremma, who started going through scrolls. She handed the correct one to Bolvar. "Oh. Uh, all of them outside of the old Lordaeron guard. The Tituses, the Atlases, and the Slivkoffs."

"That leaves seven familes?"

"Yes, your majesty. The Anders', the—"

"I don't need their names. I need their seats. They are all relieved of duty effective immediately. Return them to Lordaeron by the end of the week. We'll hold elections to put new families in power. I understand it's a bit ironic coming from a Menethil, but sometimes new blood is in order. Is this VanCleef personable?"
Bolvar shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "He's… charismatic. A bit extreme. A bit angry."

"If you send an envoy, will you be able to talk him down?"

Silence for a moment. "I believe I should go myself with my high guards. They're angry at the nobles, not the king. Maybe a big line of Alliance blue and gold will remind him of home."

Arthas nodded consent with a confident smile. "Good. I expect to have results before I leave on my expedition. Now, Muradin, how's Ironforge?"

Muradin let out a guffaw. "It's loud, it's crowded, it's smoky, and it's full of wee ones."

"Oh? Do dwarves have a breeding season?"
Disbelief overtook the dwarf's face. "Breedin'? I ain't talkin' about no breedin', I'm talkin' about wee ones! Gnoooomes!"

Arthas took a moment to realize what was being said. "Oh. The little pilots? I thought they were just shaven young dwarves."

"Ya humans are all alike! Ya don' know nothin' but elves and other humans!"

Bolvar pounded his fist onto the table. "That's not true! I know at least fifteen different clans of orcs and about ten different kinds of trolls!"

This time the silence was a bit awkward. "Er, right, but I'm talkin' about the gnomes that got kicked outta their city by the leper gnomes."

Arthas furled his brow as if Muradin was speaking some foreign language. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Can you open lines of—"

"Communication? With lepers obsessed with explosions? Are ya daft, lad? And I ain't gonna roll in with my brothers, neither. Magni just wants ta hit things in the mouth, Brann would just want to take their machines home ta study them, and I dunnae know if dwarves can be lepers. I say we storm in with our tanks and our good wee ones and take Ironforge back for the dwarves!"

"I thought you had control of Ironforge."

Muradin jumped for a moment. "Oh, right! I mean Gnomeregan for the gnomes!"

Arthas nodded, looking quizzical. "Right. If you can take it without overextending, good. But if you need our help, I'm going to need to know how to protect humans from the disease. Explosions we can handle, but disease is disease, and if it's one that addles the mind, that's going to be bad for everyone. Report back after your first push."

"Aye, sir!"

"Alright. Ladies Windrunner and Sanguinar, what say you?"

Valeera was never much for talk, so Sylvanas took charge. "Your highness. Quel'thalas remains thriving. Our magisters tap into the arcane quicker and more efficiently than even those in their floating citadel can muster."

Jaina couldn't help but cut in. "Yes, it's wonderful how many advances can be made when petty things like 'morals' don't get in the way."

"Says the woman whose organization condones torture."

Jaina didn't bite back that time.

"We are not without our problems. Some doomsayers worry that, ah, perhaps our supply of arcane power is limited. That is nonsense, of course, but some have turned to fel energies in the meantime. My sister Alleria will be investigating the matter personally while I continue scouting the world for the Scourge threat, now that the orcs are confined to their… home, would you call it? A city of iron filled with hide tents? Otherwise, things remain normal. Our newest group of trainees are set to graduate from the academy soon, and though I'm sure they cannot compare to such an elite group of fighters as the esteemed Sentinels, they would be honored to have the blessing of their king and our newest ally."

Tyrande was unsure if Sylvanas had ever stopped using sarcasm, but she went with it. "Oh, sister, it would be my honor. Though we prefer to lay our strength on our goddess rather than something as, er, traditional as the arcane, I am certain we have much to learn from each other."

Sylvanas, as it turned out, had been sarcastic and had no idea how to take the genuine kindness Tyrande offered. So, she too went with it and bowed. "I will make the proper arrangements once I return home. If you are looking for threats, King Menethil, our biggest issues come from within and will be dealt with from within. We offer our aid but require none in return. Though the Quel'dorei do thank the people of Lordaeron for their kindness."

Alleria didn't wait for a longer silence than that. "My sister understates the issue of the fel addicts. They aren't like leper gnomes or unpaid builders. The fel gives us access to power that no one here can fully comprehend, but at a cost. We become warped, twisted, insane. It whispers to us. Some have it under control until they need it, but most truly don't. And these aren't just two foot tall inventors with wrenches, or military men in their plate armor, but ancient elves who know the secrets of the world and the arcane. People who are adept with weapons, words, and the unseen. If one of our magisters became an addict, the consequences would be unfathomable. Imagine someone holding open a portal for you to quickly move from one place to another, then because they hear a whisper, they slam it shut as you're crossing it. The fabrics of reality come crashing down on your body. No, we do not need help, but if we fail, the entire world will know and they will suffer for it."

Arthas cast a wary eye at the sisters. "So, I must assume the truth lies somewhere between the two of you. This problem may not bring about the end of the world, but it is too severe for me to ignore." He pursed his lips as he thought. Turning to his squire, he made a decision. "Get Alexston, the architect. Send him, his apprentices, and a detachment of the guards to Quel'thalas immediately. With your permission, Ladies Windrunner, we will build an outpost there and keep a small amount of men and willing adventurers ready."

Sylvanas didn't look pleased, and just as she opened her mouth to speak, Alleria interrupted. "They will be treated as natives and given the utmost respect and comfort. Thank you, your majesty." She got up and left immediately before anyone could change their minds.

Syvlanas, however, stayed. "I'd like to hear the final report from your spy division before I join my sister."

Tyrande gave her a courteous smile. "I have yet to speak, Lady Windrunner."

Sylvanas snorted. "We know your situation. You're a desperate, dying breed or else you wouldn't rely on humans. I'd like more information on the races we can save. So if you please, Sanguinar. Unless it's Lady Sanguinar, though I wouldn't suppose an assassin earns any special rank."

Despite the sudden awkwardness in the room, Valeera looked up. "Encampments primarily on Northern Kalimdor. Caludrons all over southern Quel'thalas. Roaming Scourgelords near the troll village of Sen'jin. Little else to report." She looked back down.
Sylvanas pursed her lips. "Okay. What's her problem?"

Arthas cleared his throat. "She was recently freed of a very long capture, and on her first expedition, she found out that raised humanoids are cannibals. Most of her scouts were eaten by the remainder of her scouts. She's been spending lots of time in the cathedral, but… we try not to give her too much."

Sylvanas scoffed at the notion. "Too much? Is she broken? Well, fine, kind of. But is she alive? Is she breathing? Then you make her do her job, Arthas."

Bolvar stood up from his seat. "That is King Arthas to you. You are but a visitor and I'd say your attitude during this entire proceeding has earned you an early trip home."

Arthas raised his hand. "I can speak for myself, Bolvar. I know Lady Windrunner from Northrend and several other tours against many savage orcs. She comes from a world where diplomacy means little because everyone is always trying to stab you in the back." He turned to Sylvanas. "We are not. We are trying to create a world of peace for the generations to come. That is a world full of different people with different backgrounds who—" he pointed back at Valeera "—react differently to the horrors of the world. Not all are cut from the same cloth, or the same sheet of steel, as the case may be. Your people look to you to lead because you represent them—prideful, but for good reason. Your skills are unmatched and you want the world to know it. My people look to me and because I lead a diverse group of people, so I must be more diverse in my thinking. You see a broken elf, I see someone who has seen the worst and survived. Any gnome—another race that looks to Lordaeron for leadership—" this made Muradin grumble "—will tell you that all it takes is time and effort and you can fix anything. I wish to help, Lady Windrunner, but it will be on my terms."

Sylvanas didn't look humbled. In fact, she looked furious, but she managed to just tip her head. "May I … have a word with you in private, your majesty?"

After a moment of thought, Arthas nodded. "Fine, to the helm." Jaina cast him a worried look, but Arthas gave her a soft smile. "I'll only be a moment." The top deck was as rustic as the rest, equal parts splinters and fresh paint. They ascended to the steering wheel, far enough away so that even a breeze wouldn't carry their words too far. "You have my attention."

Sylvanas began quickly. "I have no time for games. My people do need help, but I don't need some jumped up human telling me what to do. I won't forget what happened when the orcs came with their foul magics and tried to tap into our arcane sources, and you and the people of Lordaeron have my eternal gratitude, but if you ever disrespect me like that again—especially in front of my people, let alone my sister—I will put an arrow through your neck so you can never speak again. Do I make myself clear?"

Arthas had come a long way since being the brash, overzealous prince who cleansed Stratholme. History saw that he was right, even if he went the wrong way about doing it. But buried deep beneath his calm, kingly poise was that same angry young man with something to prove. "And let me make myself clear, then, since we're being so very frank. I have a fairly large tolerance for insubordination, and I recognize you as my equal in rule and perhaps even my superior in combat and wisdom, but you will show me respect. You are in Lordaeron, m'Lady. Your magisters with their feeble magic and your bowmen are nowhere to be seen. If you disrespect me, YOUR king, in my own kingdom like that again, you will be arrested on the spot."

Sylvanas had a way of both scoffing and laughing at the same time. Arthas managed to elicit one from her. "I suppose your guards will apprehend me? The geriatric old veterans or the kids who needed some way to pass the time and thought putting swords in green men was better than going to school?"

Without uttering a word, Arthas bound Sylvanas in long braids of ethereal gold chains. She struggled but couldn't move. "Knights of the Silver Hand use their magic to heal the weak, protect the innocent, and subdue the wicked. Tell me, Lady Windrunner," he said, drawing closer to her, "Are you wicked?"

Hatred burned in Sylvanas' eyes. In this battle, though, she had been seemingly bested. "I'm as bad as they come, your highness. But for now, if it saves my people, I'll keep that pretty little neck of yours safe."

The chains started falling down off of her, one link at a time. "Is there anything else you'd like to get off of your chest while we're being so honest?"

"Yes." She flexed her arms now that they were free of the golden binds. "I wish the best for you and your family. Perhaps when you become a father, you'll realize the lengths one will go to protect one's own family. The Quel'dorei are my family, your majesty. My sisters are my blood, but my people are my family." She turned her hate-filled eyes on him. "It will take more chains than your pathetic human magic can muster to stop me from protecting them." In an effort to prove her point, she grabbed up the last few links that were around her hips and in one fluid motion, they disappeared in a bright burst of light. "Next time, highness, I won't play along quite so long. Now if you'll excuse me, my sister and I have much more important matters to attend to." Though Arthas started to object, Sylvanas was already walking away. He looked down at his hands as if questioning their uselessness—he had actually been proud of that particular bit of magic. It took him months to learn the restraint to only bind someone without squeezing them lifeless. These high elves were arrogant, perhaps even far too arrogant for his taste, but it was apparently for a reason.

Sylvanas, meanwhile, called over the side of the ship. "Alleria, we're leaving. Now." She leapt off the boat onto the dock, landing gracefully—once again baffling Arthas, which was undoubtedly the point.

Alleria quickly joined her. "Is there a reason we're disrespecting the most powerful kingdom on the planet?"

Sylvanas nodded, picking up her pace. "Yes. Because you have to get back to the most important one and I have an appointment with the second most powerful one."

Alleria gave a glare her sister would approve of, should it be aimed at someone else. "You don't mean… Sister, if the Alliance finds out…"

Sylvanas raised a hand to silence her. "They will not know unless you tell them. You are the only other person who knows. I leave for Draka'mar in the morning."

Sylvanas wasn't the only one closing in on the orc capital a few days later. "If you were wrong, Shar'lak, I will—"

"Yes, I know. Visit atrocities upon my soul. As if moving me from a rat to a dwarf to a bird to a human to a troll to a wolf to a cow to an orc wasn't an atrocity to begin with." He sounded quite tired of the whole affair. Considering it'd been several years since they came to this strange place, perhaps Gul'dan couldn't blame him.

The green fel flare in Gul'dan's eyes and the sudden yelp of pain from Shar'lak said otherwise. "I think I have praised your work too highly, Shar'lak. You grow overconfident. You forget how easily you can be replaced by any of my disciples in this world."

Shar'lak was also familiar with this anti-pep talk. "Which disciples are those? This Gul'dan was torn apart by the very demons he worked so hard to appease. You have been irrelevant in this world for longer than we have been here.

Another yelp of pain. But he did have a point. "All the better, minion. Every child is afraid of ghost stories. In stories, though, the ghost isn't real. I am quite real. Go. Address their warchief."

"Are you quite certain I am important enough?"

Gul'dan perked a brow. "That body is that of the recently deceased Grotty Goldblaster. In the grand scheme of things, he was no one, but his father is a dear friend of the warchief's seer."

Shar'lak wore a look of concern. "I don't recall telling you that."

Gul'dan shot him a malevolent grin. "You are more expendable than you know, Shar'lak. Tap his memories, play your part, and get the seer outside."

"My master's will be done." Shar'lak bowed and went towards the city. Orcish architecture was never anything he approved of. The Shadow Council was accustomed to either caves, mountain peaks, or the finer things and locales. The customary wood, iron, and spikes might have startled intruders, but Shar'lak, despite his years on the road with his master now, did not miss the cliché gates that loomed over him. Every orc city wanted to be bigger than the other ones. Bigger meant more power. It got rather silly, after a while—even the more savage, nomadic tribes built great villages. Why on earth would you take the time to establish a huge outpost when you were just going to leave?

Shar'lak shook his head. Most of his journeys were filled with his pointless musing. His master was by no means his friend and sometimes his own thoughts were all he had. Still. Gates. Iron. Spikes. Orcs. In. He focused for a moment and tried to access the memories of this goblin. He was… rich, entitled, loved gold as much as he loved women, and liked to announce himself as he entered any place. Shar'lak wondered if it would hurt if an orcish axe took the goblin's head off. Probably not. Grotty would disregard the male and immediately try to take the female home, so here goes.

"Halt, goblin. State your business," said the male.

"My business ain't yours, pal," he said, sidling over away from the male and towards the female, "But you can have any bit of my business you want, toots. Grotty. Grotty Goldblaster. Whatcha doin' after you're done staring at the desert with kodo breath over there?"

Orc women apparently didn't like that kind of disrespect. The backhand actually didn't hurt, but as he was supposed to be alive, he had to sell it. "I am returning to my mate. You should run along home unless you wish to return there in pieces, whelp."

"No can do, toots," he said, raising up and cradling his chin. "For one, I got a' appointment with the seer. For two, if that's how you hit, I think I'm in love." This goblin had been a very foul idiot.

The male orc laughed. "You? You wish to see the high seer? Get lost."

"Yeah, I do. Maybe ya heard of my pop…" he hesitated a moment, trying to fetch the name from the goblin's memory, "Murty Goldblaster? He probably owns half of yer bank and has enough to own most of Ratchet. Ring any bells?"

The guards both stiffened up, looking now disgusted and shamed. "Murty's boy. Yes. Go right in." They rolled their eyes and looked ahead.

"I don't suppose knowin' who my dad is changed your mind, did it sweetness?" Another backhand to make the bruise on the right side of his jaw have a matching partner on the left. "I knew ya liked me." He looked behind him, hoping to see any sign of Gul'dan, but didn't. With a shrug (and stutter in his step to fit the character), he headed in. It always felt odd to Shar'lak to pilot the bodies according to their memories, almost as if he was letting go of control. But actually, around the gates… this city wasn't so bad. The bank, barracks, and what he assumed was the warchief's den were large, steel, spiked, and guarded—as well they should be. But the rest of the city seemed to be some sort of bazaar. Tents, stands, people chatting and making deals. Trolls were offering types of meats that were probably not entirely legal; orcs were selling livestock, armor, weapons (and in one bizarre case, an armored cow); tauren were offering ale, spirits, herbs, and one person was apparently offering "Spiritual Guidance" in a secluded, closed tent that had a suspiciously large keg in front of it. The body felt drawn to that tent, but Shar'lak resisted it. This goblin truly must have been disgusting. However, after that, he was drawn to the warchief's den. That didn't feel safe, but the body seemed to know. The elite guards, which he knew from the goblin to be called Kor'kron and were not to be trifled with, stared ahead in full red spiked plate armor and incredibly, ridiculously large axes on their backs. Shar'lak was a very competent caster before his current situation—he could hurl boulders of fire incredibly far and accurately—but he felt actual fright around them. Tauren, trolls, orcs… they must be interspersed, but the armor just made them look like faceless masses of terror and might. As he approached the warchief's den, none of them made an effort to stop him. "I'm just going to—"
"Silence."

He couldn't tell which one said it. "I was just—"

"Your intentions are irrelevant. Your actions are what decide if you survive."

He tried to giggle. He actually squeaked. But in the den he went. It was rather pedestrian—a map, a few small chairs, a spiked throne, and lots of very important people. At the center, a face Shar'lak recognized—an aged-to-grey-hair but quite alive Grommash Hellscream. Gorehowl was strapped across his back, just as it was the last time he saw him. His armor was unchanged, though it had definitely seen better days—and by extension, probably many battles. At one side, his son, Garrosh. Alive in this world, but with the same stupid look of determined spite he had worn when Shar'lak saw him last. He couldn't hear much from where he was, but it sounded as if Garrosh was trying to plot out a warpath through elven lands before the humans reinforced them, while Grom kept insisting that it was time to rebuild. Maybe he could hear a lot, or he was getting close enough to them as his feet appeared to be propelling him forward on their own. Now, only a few feet from the orcs, he could hear that the other advisor was also arguing against war. He felt a rush of affection from the host body. Shar'lak had never seen him himself, but this was definitely… "Thrall! Buddy! How ya doin'?"

The orcs all stopped and stared at the tiny green intruder, who grinned broadly. It was clear that he was incredibly unwelcome here. That didn't shake his all-importance. "Grutty?" came Thrall's deep pitched response. "How are you here? Your father told me you died."

Uh oh. "Oh… uh, y-yeah, well, you know how it is. You grab a dame, you grab a broad, you grab a keg, you grab a room, and you're dead to the world, am I right?" The orcs continued glowering at him. He may never know if he's right. "But hey, speaking of my pop, he's got a new partner in a new gig and he wants you in. Come have a talk with us back home. We've got some of that wiiiine you liiiike."

Thrall, for once, looked a bit flustered. "Your father was just here. Why wouldn't he have told me about that himself?"
"Oh, because it's so important. He always sends me out on his important business."

Thrall narrowed his eyes. "He never has before."

"That's because it's never been this important before, ya goof. We ain't never done business together."

"As I recall, you had that idea to drill the first few layers of rock along the coast, despite the fact that almost everyone told you that was a bad idea."

"That was one, okay, but it was—"

"Or to put a deactivated bomb in the middle of a city and offer cheap land and not allow engineers near it."

"Okay, two, but—"

"Or the—"

"The point is, bud, it has never been this important before! And we could use someone with your shamagic."

Grom, for once, looked as irritated as his son. "While we're only dealing with unimportant matters like how to rebuild the Horde, this investment sounds much more important, shaman. And if you leave, he leaves. So leave." He turned back to the map. Garrosh flashed a rare smile at Thrall's apparent disdain.

With a grumble, Thrall bowed. "Yes, warchief. Come, Grutty. Let's see what this big idea is." Shar'lak led him out, almost unable to believe it was so easy. On the other hand, Thrall had no reason to know what was about to happen. Come to think of it, Shar'lak didn't know what was about to happen either. Maybe Gul'dan would let him die, finally. If only he could be so lucky. The Kor'kron saluted sharply as Thrall walked by. Every few steps, Thrall would make small talk with a citizen, or give a blessing of some sort. This suited them both fine—Thrall wouldn't have to talk to Grutty and Shar'lak wouldn't have to spend any more time going through the filthy creature's mind. Once they were outside the gates, it wasn't very far to the ravine that Gul'dan was lying in wait. Wolf riders came through that very pass every hour or so, so whatever this was would have to be done quickly. "Grutty, if we're going to Ratchet, could we not just fly? I'd like to get back to the warchief sooner rather than later."

"He won't be needing you today, shaman." Gul'dan's voice crept out from the shadows. Shar'lak took this opportunity to bravely hide.

"I knew the boy was dead. For that matter, so are you, Gul'dan." Thrall's voice remained steady, though his fingers twitched to the hilt of the Doomhammer, the weapon his mentor and previous warchief had given to him. With his dying breath, Orgim Doomhammer gave the Horde to Thrall. But for his bravery in the battle against a demonic invasion—led by the Gul'dan that stood before Thrall—Grommash Hellscream was undoubtedly their true leader. After singlehandedly destroying the pit lord Mannoroth and sacrificing himself, Thrall rushed to his side. Though neither he nor the others involved would admit it, Proudmoore's daughter had been there trying to show a united front against a greater threat, in the spirit of Lordaeron's unity. As it turns out, it was human medicine and the Light that saved Grom Hellscream.

"Death is just a minor inconvenience to someone like me, shaman. Now let's talk."

Thrall chuckled. "We have nothing to talk about. Your invasion failed. You failed. You are just a whisper, a fleeting shadow in the bright sun of the Horde. You, Gul'dan, are a failure. The Horde has no room for you." Thrall seemed to swell with pride, getting to tell the corrupt orc what he really thought.

"Then let's talk about Rehgar Earthfury."

"What about him? No games."

"Let's talk about his new pet gladiator. Let's talk about you knowing exactly what I'm talking about."

Thrall tensed, but he can play the game too. "I can't be responsible for the actions of every orc. I'm not even warchief."

Gul'dan held his arms out wide. "Of course not, but what about for one that directly reports to you? What was it you told him? 'The Proudmoore woman gave us a warchief. Return their chief to them.'"
"You couldn't possibly know that."

"I spoke to you through a dead goblin. I stand before you now. Do not assume anything is out of my power." In truth, Shar'lak just spent a few days in the body of a previously deceased gladiator. And another rat. Or was it a parrot? It was hard to keep track.

"Regardless, Rehgar simply misunderstood me. He released the high elf back to the Alliance. Croc-bait still fights with us."
"Do not insult my intelligence and tell me you don't know who 'Croc-bait' is."

Thrall gave no verbal response.

"I propose a trade. You give him to me"

This brought a stern look back to Thrall's face. "Never. I don't know what you'll do with him and that's what worries me the most."

"It's none of your concern."

"That is also what worries me. I cannot fathom what you will do with him and I know you won't tell me. I have seen the atrocities of this world. Many of them were committed by you. I have no interest in you visiting more upon its inhabitants, not even a human." Thrall turned to walk away. Gul'dan said nothing, but rolled two perfectly round purple orbs along the ground after Thrall. He stopped. "Are these what I think they are?"

"'What' isn't what you should concern yourself with, shaman. 'Who' is much more worrisome."

Thrall gave an outraged roar. "You took souls hostage? That is a new low even for you. May you never find rest when someone finds a way to remove you from this world, necromancer."

Gul'dan grinned. "You are only partially right. One is a hostage, yes. One is a gift."

"And you require?"

"A trade. I require a ship and Croc-bait."

"That's rather mundane for you, isn't it?" Thrall scoffed.

"What I need it for is none of your concern. But I require one of Kaldorei build. Condition doesn't matter, so long as it is seaworthy."

This gave Thrall a stony, deadpanned expression. "You are asking an orc for an elven ship. You have truly lost your mind. I'm done wasting my—"

"Have you seen your dear friend Rehgar lately? How is he?"

"Are you saying—"

"I'm not saying anything. I'm merely implying that if I could get close enough to hear private conversations, I may have been close enough to garner a bit of leverage."

"If any harm has come to my friend, it will be visited tenfold on to you."

"You cannot imagine the seconds of sleep I'm going to lose due to the terror you just caused me. But as you delay, his body begins to rot and stagnate. Bodies can exist without souls for quite some time—how else would there be so many trade good vendors in every city and outpost—but he has been without for a few days now."

"Who is the other?"

"Do you know the Mag'har?"
"Of course. It is the tribe our warchief hails from."

"It is also the tribe your mate hails from."

"I do not have time for a mate, warlock. I'm done with you."

"You do not yet, no. In my travels, I have come to learn a great many things. For example, the young high seer of Draka'mar has but two dreams in life. He wants to see the orcish tribes united and he wishes to continue his bloodline."

Thrall crossed his arms over his chest, recoiling back at Gul'dan's words. "How could you… No one… Possibly…"

"No one but me. Her name is Aggra. She will stand with you through several of the most severe tests anyone has ever seen, and at the end of it, two children. Your equal, shaman. Your partner."

Thrall was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was a mix of a growl and a whisper. "Why should I believe a single word you say? You have doomed our people. We still reel from your 'legacy'. You are one of the greatest… failures in the history of our world."

"I can answer that quite simply. Have I been wrong about any of this? Have I said one single word that was inaccurate?"

Thrall stewed in his mix of rage and conflict for a moment. "It will take time to get your ship, but the orders to release Croc-bait will be given when I return to Draka'mar. Tell me how to release the souls."

Gul'dan bowed. "You simply break them near the bodies of the afflicted. But those are going to be unbreakable until I set sail. The word of a coward is worth nothing."

Thrall growled. "I am many things, but I am not a coward."

"Not yet, no. Years from now, you kill the Hellscream boy. He challenges you to Mak'gora. He utterly destroys you in combat. So you electrocute him. Good day, seer." He turned and left, refusing to let a single word of protest stop him. With the flick of his wrist, he drew Shar'lak's soul out of the deceased goblin. "You have earned a permanent body, Shar'lak. Now, do I reward you for your years of service coming to fruition, or do I remember all those hurtful things you told your master?"

"I would prefer to be at your mercy, my master. I must beg for forgiveness for my own shortcomings, but I do hope I have performed to your expectations."

"To them and beyond, minion. Come. I have use for you yet."

Part 2: A Tale of Two Elves

It had been a few weeks since Sylvanas left the meeting with the Hellscream twits. You would think that a band of people known entirely for protecting outcasts would understand "Yes, I spoke to the humans out of respect, but I need to protect my people" without using the word "traitor". Well, at least that's what the younger one said. But Sylvanas played the game and got exactly what she wanted—access to human military strength and access to the lands the orcs were storming before any of their various plunderers could strip it of any value. She had to exchange virtually nothing, and even better, neither of them knew about it. If worse came to worse, she could just pick a side.

Her steed meandered along the path to the southern end of Quel'thalas. There was no real hurry to get to this so called "Wretched" incursion. Broken elves were a copper a dozen, even cheaper if you stay with the Alliance for too long. In Quel'thalas, they were practically a road hazard. Not even that—they were a piece of debris to be kicked aside. Roughly. Repeatedly. Whatever it took to keep them away.

No matter what happened—combat, a ceremony, training, or just sitting in her home, Sylvanas never wore a different outfit: intricate, etched mail of her people's silver and blue and a dark hood to conceal her face but not obstruct her vision. If she was going to be alone for a while, sure, parts of the form-fitting, all-concealing outfit would come off, but in battle? Covered, head to toe, and mail combat boots with no heel on them whatsoever. Why on earth would someone who engages in frequent combat leave exposed skin for the enemy to aim at or wear something as dangerous and flatly stupid as heels? The fashion trends were too ridiculous for her sometimes. That right there was all she needed to know about the Kaldorei woman when she first saw her—cleavage, thighs (if only thighs) and heels. In other words—an easy kill or a liability, depending on where Sylvanas was standing in relation to her. A pathetic race of naturalists pretending to be soldiers.

She hated long roads. All she could do was sit and internalize.

The lush green fields were full of elf children and their pets—lynxes, mana wyrms, all sorts of fun creatures—but little did they know they were only a few hundred feet away from a raging battle. The transition from the normal lush greenery of Quel'thalas to the fel-tainted scar at the southern end of the kingdom was jarring but she had no idea it was coming. The line of magisters who were keeping the illusion up were doing a fantastic job, even if most were looking pale and haggard. For that matter, there was only one maintaining it. "M'lady, any word on when we will be relieved?"

They didn't even greet her. In many other circumstances, she would've been insulted. In fact, she still almost was, but the four of them had been at it for a few weeks now in tight rotations, only getting a few hours off to eat, drink, and nap if they were lucky. "Soon, sir magister. Soon. I'm looking for my…" she stopped. There were normally four magisters, but she was only looking at two and the designated rest areas were empty. She slid down off of her steed and tied it off to a post. "Where are the other two?"

"They uh… tried taking a shortcut, m'lady," replied the magister, flinching. He knew she knew what he meant, that didn't mean he wanted to be the one to tell her anyway.

"I can hardly blame them," she said in an uncharacteristically soothing voice. "We are surrounded by fel energies, fel crystals… fel anything, really. Even the trees grow with the unnatural horror of the fel. You can hardly blame them. Right? I mean, who wouldn't try a little just to keep going."

His stance loosened a bit. "I know I can't. I am often… tempted. Our job is very important and our focus is crucial. Sometimes I think just a bit would help."

"Oooh, poor thing," Sylvanas cooed. "But you never have indulged, have you?"

He gave an almost imperceptible nod. "Once. Three days ago. It was just the one time and, well, I hadn't been given a break in almost 14 hours. Do you know what standing and channeling a spell this massive for 14 hours can do to you?"

"That's quite true, sir magister. But do you know what the fel does to you even one single time? It rewires your body and soul. The arcane power you're using right now isn't as strong as it was three days ago. Even at your weakest, as you craved it, that spell was stronger than the one you're casting right now. That means that our people—the children I passed playing on my way in, the elders, the future soldiers—they could be looking this way and see just a flicker. Maybe less than a of grey dirt. They could see through the beautiful green grass and blue sky that you've been paid handsomely to put up." She shook her head, drawing an arrow for her bow. "Where is the next magister in line?" she called out.

A woman who had been lying prone, sweating profusely leaned up. "That is me, m'lady. But I have only been breaking for perhaps fifteen minutes. I can barely move."

"'Barely' means you have something left to give. On your feet." She aimed the bow at the standing magister, who now was breaking out into nervous twitches. "Now, in a few seconds, you're going to stop you channeling. Where are you going after that?"

"H-home?"

Sylvanas drew the arrow back slightly more, making the magister twitch and look like he was about to be hit by an oncoming train.

"Uh… S-Silvermoon?"

"Where in Silvermoon?"

"To my superior?"

The arrow got drawn back as far as it could go. "And?"

"Tell him I need to be relieved of duty until I can stay clean?"

Sylvanas relaxed. "Good. Off you go then." He visibly relaxed, only stopping the spell when the magistrix came close enough to pick it up. Once he had left, Sylvanas rested her hand on the magistrix's shoulder. "Rest will come, sister. I require your strength for just a few more hours, then more magisters will be coming from Silvermoon. Can you handle that for me?"

"I can, Lady Windrunner," replied the magistrix.

"Good. Remain strong. You are doing the most important work being done right now."

The magistrix looked over at her, beaming. "And all without a single fel crystal!"

"Don't push your luck with the praise," Sylvanas said, rolling her eyes as she continued through the camp. It was a basic, if still luxurious (they were elves, after all) encampment—tents, cooking fires, designated areas for people who needed healing, and there was supposed to be an area for the dead, but there didn't appear to be any. At least that was good news. But where was anyone at all? There were no signs of elves nor wretched past the two sustaining the illusion. Maybe the campaign had gone so well that the wretched were already dead and the corpses were burned. She knew better than to get her hopes up. The first day the wretched started showing up in her cities, she lost the hope of ever having a day without them again. Trying to tell people to be aware of signs of the addiction—twitching, then green-tinted eyes, then green skin, before final twisting and contorting of one's features—had been fruitless because either people saw the signs everywhere or refused to see them when it was in their homes.

Sylvanas was a wolf in a land full of sheep, only she had to lead them rather than feast.

But there was more than one wolf in her pack, and finally, at the end of a destroyed path that had spots of dried, corrupted green blood, she saw one. Or the back of one. And worse, she was lightly twitching. "Alleria?" she called softly, drawing her bow. "Sister?" The figure twitched a few more times. Sylvanas' voice grew strained. "Look at me, Alleria!"

Her sister turned slowly, their eyes meeting. Alleria's arms were crossed in front of her with her fingers interlocked. "Can't a woman stretch in peace? I've been fighting these people for the last five hours. What's wrong, Sylvanas?" Alleria had a serious tone and looked exhausted. Dried green blood caked her gauntlets. For that matter, it caked all of the arrows in her quiver, as well.

"What? Oh, nothing. I just expected to see more people here. Where is everyone?"

"Oh, this campaign has been over for a few hours. I sent everyone home."

"You just said you'd been fighting for the last five hours."

Alleria perked a brow. "Yes, I personally have been. I don't need a full regiment for the stragglers I've been picking off."

"That is from stragglers, then?" Sylvanas asked, gesturing at the dried blood all over Alleria.

"Okay, so a few got the jump on me, but I'm here. A couple of bruises, maybe. A couple of scrapes. But they're gone, I'm here, and our home is safe until the next invasion. What about you? You look as proud of yourself as ever. Behind all that fear for your darling sister."

She responded with pursed lips and editing her first thought. "We gained what we needed and gave up little."

Alleria waited a moment. "And? Do I get to learn about any of this?"

"None of it concerns you."

"You disrespect me, sister. We both rule Silvermoon and Quel'thalas. We both get to know everything the other one does. I killed a few dozen wretched. Here we are."

"Tell me," Sylvanas replied, trying not to sound too demeaning, "Were you aware that one of your magisters has consumed fel crystals?"

"Seven."

"What?"

"Seven have. That's why we were down to two. Unless you meant one of them did."

"I did."

Alleria pinched the bridge of her nose. "I only blame myself. I wanted our people to be secluded from this skirmish so badly, I fear I overworked everyone. With the fel so prevalent around here, it was only natural."

That did it. "The fel is many things, sister mine, but 'natural' is not one of them. It's attitudes like that that we cannot tolerate. This addiction is the biggest threat to our people and livelihood and to the balance of mana around the world. We have to wipe it and the creatures afflicted by it off of the planet."

"Creatures? These are people, Sylvanas. We owe it to them to try to save them. If we can't save them, then yes, we put them down."

"How have your attempts at saving them been going? Or shall I ask every single one of your stained arrows?"

"Hey, at least I'm trying. You're ready to wipe out some of the people you're so anxious to protect."

"Death is a form of protection from worse things. Would you rather be dead or a broken shell of yourself? Would you rather that your mind ceases to be, or would you rather dwell on needing the thing that is destroying you?"

"It is an option, yes, but when is it not your first option? You threatened the king of the Alliance. I'm willing to bet you're back a few days early from your trip to Draka'mar for the same reason."

"For your information, all they asked from me was a bit of tactical advice for an upcoming advancement they're making on the elves."

Alleria started to talk but ended up just gesturing pointlessly in the air. She held her mouth open in shocked disgust.

"Are you making moral judgments, Alleria? Morals and tactics do not fare well together when survival is at stake."

Alleria set her jaw. It was clear she and her sister tried to out-intimidate each other when they started arguing. The narrowing of her eyes made her look a bit like an upset school teacher. It wasn't quite what she was going for, but actions spoke louder than gestures in elven culture. "It seems to me that spitting in the face of the Alliance is more detrimental for our survival than anything else. Especially when their architects are building an outpost just south of the city as we speak. Their army will be—"

"Busy, Alleria. Their army will be busy. We're getting at most a few dozen men who probably don't even amount to much in their own military. If they can somehow trace the tactics I gave them back to Silvermoon, we will react according. But if they are arrogant and stupid enough to march on SIlvermoon and our soldiers, in our homes, on the source of our power? They deserve the swift deaths they'll be granted by elven arrows and elven magic."

"So you've chosen the Horde without even talking to me or any of your people? Is that what happened?"

"I never said that. I offered them a tactical advantage, an advantage that the Alliance will need to ask for our help with. Do you understand? We have the favor of both sides. Our people are protected."

"That assumes this plan of yours goes off without a hitch."
"My plans always do, sister." With that, Sylvanas turned and left.

Alleria whistled loudly. The men and women assisting her came out of hiding now that Sylvanas was gone. "Get everyone else. We're going back to camp. This mission is over."

"Throm ka, Seer Thrall. What do you ask of this one?"

Thrall usually had a somewhat serene gaze, but recently, his demeanor had seemed more than a little dour. "I need you and the rest of the Kor'kron to move out before our forces. It is not in the nature of the young Hellscream to take prisoners and I require an elven ship."

The Kor'kron—obviously an orc by size and stature—made a non-committal grunting sound. "Your will does not surpass the warchief's. The penalty for suggested treason is death, seer." The other Kor'kron turned their gazes on Thrall simultaneously.

"But it does surpass his son. Garrosh doesn't have any recognized rank above my own."

"As of today, Garrosh Hellscream is recognized as General of the Horde."

"Shockingly, Kor'kron, having been at the ceremony, I am fully aware of Garrosh's promotion. I am also aware that I am the warchief's direct second in command and if you try to lecture me again on the hierarchy of the Horde, you will be relieved of duty."

A low growl came from the faceless armor. "You have many critics, seer. If I have truly wronged you, it is your duty to sentence me to death."

Thrall chuckled. "Our ways are often very black and white. Disgrace means death. Having your own thoughts means death if they go against the warchief. For a Kor'kron such as yourself, death is too easy. You will instead carry out my orders exactly as I dictate them to you."

"As you command."

Hours later, a full regiment of Horde warriors stood at the gates of Draka'mar, ready to move out at Garrosh Hellscream's command. The only one missing was Hellscream himself, who was still in his war room at the discretion of Draka'mar's high seer. "Obviously lives will be lost, weakling. This is a war. This is conquest."
"I am saying, boy," Thrall replied, trying hard to restrain himself, "That even though lives are going to be lost, there are more humane ways to wage war."

"'Humane' is a funny word. When you read it, you cannot help but see 'human' right in it. I am not a human, Thrall. I am a son of Draenor, as are you, no matter how badly you aspire to be a human. Most importantly, I am a son of Hellscream. I do not care how much elven blood spills while we retake this continent."

"And orcish blood?"

"They are ready to die for their warchief, as any true orc would."

"But what if they didn't have to? What if you kept more for more battles later? I'm not denying your attack, I'm trying to redirect it."

Garrosh pointed at the battle map laying on the war room's table. "Ashenvale is the area with the most natural resources. We would not only gain generations worth of meat, pelts, pack wolves, lumber, and who knows what else, they would lose them. I know you do not respect my intelligence, seer, but do not think me a fool."

Thrall pointed further northeast on the map. "What about here?"

"That is their port city, Auberdine. A city of traders, sailors, and a handful of poets. If I wanted to slaughter weaklings, I'd visit your quarters as you slept."

He was used to threats from Garrosh by now, but he that one shook him a bit. "Watch your tongue, boy. Your father is nowhere to be found and I still matter more to the Horde than you do. Now if you want to talk about your intellect, tell me what ports do."

Garrosh deadpanned. In the history of people looking amused, no one had looked less amused than Garrosh did in that moment. "They are where foreign supplies, reinforcements, and visitors come in. Would you like me to explain how zeppelins work next? Flying is a bit more confusing than riding water."

"Listen to me, you arrogant toerag!" Thrall shouted, pounding the table. He was silent a moment to catch his temper. However, his outburst only turned Garrosh's condescending indifference to a silent, burning rage. "The port is an easier target. You can take it and cut them off from their new human allies while you take Ashenvale. The Lordaeron boat comes every few hours and lands right at those docks."

"And if we take Auberdine, we're dangerously near their capital. They also have docks near their precious world tree, not to mention we're setting ourselves up for a war on two fronts from both Darnassus and Ashenvale. I am not afraid of the Sentinels and their pathetic bows, but I respect them enough to not want to give them a chance to put an arrow in my eye. We raid Ashenvale, Thrall." Garrosh straightened up to leave.

"Coward."

Garrosh stopped. He turned around… grinning. "Nice try. My pride can't be wounded by someone without any." He started walking out again.

"I will bless Gorehowl."
He stopped again. "My father wields it."

"We both know he'll give it to you for this campaign. With my blessing, the wind spirits will carry your weapon faster than you could ever manage on your own. You will swing it as quickly and easily as a wooden dagger, but with all the lethality that Gorehowl can muster. But I will only bless it until Ashenvale is taken."

Garrosh thought this over. "There are hundreds of other seers in this city, all of whom would see honor in blessing my blade."

"Are any of them the high seer? Have any of them actually invoked the elements in body and spirit at will? Imagine the destruction you could carve out on your own."

He chewed his lip, thinking over Thrall's words. "You will bless it in front of the troops. I will test it. Then and only then do we ride for Auberdine."

Thrall bowed. "On my honor."

Just over a week had passed. Upon finding the most reasonable path to Auberdine, it was clear that the journey would be a long and trying one. Even more clever than previously thought, Garrosh announced to his troops that Thrall would be joining them on their first campaign. He could hardly deny service promised to the entire Horde. Though they encountered little resistance on their path through Stonetalon and the shores of Ashenvale, what they had seen was torn literally asunder with the wind enhanced Gorehowl. Thrall's plan may have worked too well. However, Garrosh's assessment of Auberdine was clearly accurate. Even in the wee hours of the morning, most places would have someone wandering somewhere, but Auberdine was soundless, motionless, and lifeless. In fact, Hellscream was so right about the summary of the town that the first sign that anyone lived there at all was a still-life painting of the docks still in its easel with an open book of poetry next to it. The warband was a few hundred strong, the clanging of the plate armor on those wearing it being the only sound in the sleepy town.

Garrosh took Gorehowl off of his back and held it in front of Thrall. With a sad look, Thrall hesitated for a moment. They'd killed soldiers before, but now they were in a city. These were citizens. Families. Parents. How much blood would be spilled in the name of the pact he made with Gul'dan? Had he chosen the lives of a possibly fictional stranger and his friends over the lives of thousands of innocent elves? He looked over at Garrosh. "Are you sure this is what you really want?"

"I want orcs to come out of the shadows of their failures and to break free of the weakness many wish we had. It starts with taking Kalimdor." He pushed Gorehowl forcefully forward. Thrall uttered a few words, waved his hand, and felt the weight of the axe virtually disappear. "And our conquest begins now." Garrosh walked up to the nearest dwelling, gripped Gorehowl tightly in his hands, and swung it with all of his might. With the wind aiding him, he took out the entire wall, making the home collapse in on itself. Screams pierced through the night. A woman, maybe a child? Thrall couldn't tell. His eyes were trained on the docks. Several formless figures clad in red threw an alarmed elf man off into the ocean. The boat turned and left to the south, as quickly as the wind and waves would take it. Three of the four lanterns were lit up. The Kor'kron had been successful. Thrall took the opportunity of the first few moments of chaos to escape from the battle before he had to witness too much more. In a few more days, his choices would come to bear.

The battle for Auberdine didn't last long. All messengers were killed before they could leave. No living elf was spared. Garrosh sat on the docks, washing the blood off of Gorehowl in the sea. "Beggin' ya pardon, Gen'rel," said a soft troll voice.

"Speak," he replied to the troll.

"Ev'ryt'in' be cleared. Do ya wan' us ta bring in the messenger?"

"Bring it, but don't use it," Garrosh said quietly. "We're going to wait for the next boat from Lordaeron so we make sure the humans get the message. Order everyone else to leave."

"Ev'ryone else, Gen'rel?"

"Yes," he said, standing up. He turned to the troll, who was young—perhaps twenty. "One of us must make sure it goes off. I have dozens more conquests to lead. A world to conquer. You have played your part. This is where your conquests end."

The troll gulped, realizing what had just been said. After a moment, he nodded and saluting. "It be mah honna, Gen'rel."

"What is your name? It will be sung on the lips of trolls for generations to come."

"Xan'bu, Gen'rel."

Garrosh put his hand on Xan'bu's shoulder. "I will see you in the next life, my friend. Ancestors guide you. Lok'tar Ogar!"

"Lok'tar Ogar!" With that, the two went their separate ways—the troll ran off to the troops and Garrosh returned to his mount. When the others rallied behind him, he led them an hour down the path, then stopped.

"Behold, men. We step out of the shadows and into the light in the most literal way this world has ever seen." A ship, just at the edge of their vision, had turned from the docks. A tall, gangly fellow was at the helm—a troll. A few seconds later, there was a great rumbling, followed by a violent, purple, arcane eruption. The mana bomb had been detonated in the center of Auberdine, and exactly as Garrosh had hoped, the ship had stalled just long enough to pick up a few licks of the purple fire. The boat took off at a blur, wild arcane energies warping it and contorting it with speed and instability. The men and women around him cheered triumphantly. The Horde—no, the Orcish Horde—was back.

Another week had passed in Lordaeron. Tyrande looked out at the docks. Another boat, another reminder of home as a few dozen elves stepped out, looking at the human architecture with a mix of wonder and condescension. Nothing here was elegant. It was all a show of power and strength. The statues here were meant to be here a thousand years from now. Elves never needed that since they themselves would also be here a thousand years from now. Just watching the docks proved that: elven ships danced along the top of the water, letting the currents and wind carry them; human ships plowed through the waves, refusing to take nature's guidance. Everyone and everything would bow to the force of human will. The youth of their race made them innovative, hopeful, prideful, and dangerous. In truth, Tyrande hoped that the humans would learn about patience and planning from the elves during this alliance. To her, that was much more important than military strength. Hopefully, in time, her new friends would agree. Regardless, the diplomatic mission was finally, thankfully, almost over. It had been a success—a few detachments of humans, dwarves, and gnomes would come reinforce the Kaldorei settlements while they tried to rebuild, and in return a handful of her druids would help try to find a cure for the leper gnomes near Ironforge and a few would stay behind in Lordaeron to help cleanse the land around it during the human campaign against the risen dead. The Sentinels would stay near Darnassus to guard their cities, but once things stabilized, they'd help out in war efforts.

In the end, the humans were very reasonable. With such a young king at the head of such a young race, it was a pleasant surprise. "Lady Whisperwind?" She jumped a bit. A child's voice had just startled her. "Oh, I'm s-s-s-sorry, miss!"

She gave the young boy a reserved smile. She recognized him as the young Wrynn child, son of the missing Varian. "It is not your fault that I was easily startled, child. Come closer." Anduin did as he was told, slowly. You wouldn't know he was a prince with how quiet and shy he was and with the simple common-clothes outfit he wore. Then again, he was about six, so maybe the children were spared from having to shove human might at every onlooker. "How are you today, little one?"
"G-good, Miss Whisperwind. How are you?"

"Oh, so polite!" she gushed, "I'm also doing very well, but I do miss my home. Are you here to tell me that I can go back?"

"Well…" Anduin started, looking down at the ground in shame.

"No, don't be embarrassed, child. I know. One more meeting with the king and queen and then I'll head home on the night ship. Right?"

He thought about it for a moment then nodded enthusiastically. "That's what Uncle Arthas said!"

"Well then, maybe we should be off? Is that why they sent you?"
He nodded again, looking excited.

"Maybe you could come with me? I'd hate to get lost in this big city of yours. Can you show me how to get to them and join us for a meal?"

"I'm not opposed to. I have to go see the teacher."

"Supposed to, little one, and I think I can see why. But this one time, I don't think your aunt and uncle would mind if you came to dinner. Besides," she continued, rising to her feet and putting a ceremonial Darnassian purple cloak on over her normal attire, "Take it from someone who has been on this planet about as long as your race has existed: schooling and teaching is not the most important thing. A teacher cannot teach you patience and understanding. They can only teach you facts. Facts change, young one, but decency never does." Anduin looked up at her hopefully. "But you should still go to school. Decency only matters so much if you don't know anything." Suddenly, he looked significantly more downtrodden. "Now, what do you like to learn about?" She reached down for his hand. He gladly took it and started leading the way towards the throne room.

"I like swords."

"Welcome to Lordaeron," said a guard they passed, oblivious to the fact that Tyrande wasn't a just-arriving visitor.

Anduin looked a bit stunned, but looked back up to Tyrande. "I… like swords—"

"Welcome to—"

"Sir," Tyrande said to the newly speaking guard, "I've been here for a few weeks and this child is royalty. We do not need a welcoming." She stepped proudly past the guard and looked down at Anduin. "You were saying? I already know you like swords."

"And I like the Light. It's pretty neat. You can like heal things or burn dead things that aren't dead anymore."

"The Light and swords? Have you talked to Uther?"

"Mister Uther is the best! But he's really serious. I don't think I've seen him smile."

"Well," Tyrande said, thinking it over, "Mister Uther is in charge of a lot of important people. Sometimes it's hard to stop working, even when you're not."
"But you're in charge of a lot of important people and you're nice."

She chuckled. "That's because I'm away from them right now. I miss them, I think of them, but I am here and they are there. Mister Uther is surrounded by his people all day, every day, until he goes and fights to protect them, then he comes home to them. I'm certain he loves them and his work, but maybe sometime the people won't need protecting and the land won't need blessing, then Mister Uther will smile."

Anduin smiled up at her, but then suddenly looked concerned.

"What's wrong, little one?"

"We're here and I don't want to stop talking because you talk pretty and you use really big words."

She blushed and reached down. "Can I give you a hug?" He nodded and didn't give her a chance to, rushing into her arms himself. She let out a chuckle. "There, how about I come back sometime or you come to Darnassus?"

He stopped the hug and looked at her, confused. "What's a Darnussis?"
"It's the biggest tree you've ever seen. It's bigger than your entire kingdom."

He stopped dead in his tracks as the doors to the throne room opened. "A tree? You live in a tree? And it's bigger than Lordaeron? I want to see!"

King Arthas opened the door himself, smiling at the duo. "And someday you will. For now, run along to teacher, okay?"
"But Uncle Arthaaas, Miss Whisperwind said I could stay!"

Arthas pursed his lips. It was clear he was tough but fair on his people, but maybe less so on family. "Five minutes. Uncle Arthas and Auntie Jania have an important guest inside waiting to meet Lady Whisperwind, but I think he has a daughter a little bit older than you. Go on, okay?" Anduin waved good bye to Tyrande and rushed in. Arthas smirked and turned towards Tyrande. "Thank you for humoring him. He doesn't have many friends, and the ones in his class either make fun of his dad being missing or are too afraid of him because he's royalty."

Tyrande waved it off. "He is a delightful child. I don't remember the last time I saw a child, especially one so curious and polite. But what's this about a special guest?"

"Oh, yes," Arthas said, opening the door for her, "Right this way, m'lady." The throne room was, in a word, grandiose. Councilmen and women, peasants, knights, squires, everyone who had ever mattered to this city and their families seemed to be in attendance. It was as grand as any other human procession—eagles and lions on banners, armor that had been so polished that it was probably more for show than battle, weapons so large they would probably break your wrist without the proper training, and, as leader of the Sentinels, she was happy to see just as many sturdy looking women in the armor as grizzled old men. There were casters somewhere, talking with Lady Menethil, but gracious as Tyrande tried to be, human magic was rather silly compared to even the most novice of elves. Then again, the elves had to go through centuries of training and most humans would be dead before even the first century of training. Though a few over there—the ones called Antondias, Khadgar, and Kel'Thuzad—seemed to have power even beyond her understanding. Thankfully as humans, they'd be on her side. However, in the center of the room were men with concealed faces and dark leather outfits. No one was talking to them or looking at them.

Tyrande decided this wouldn't do. As she got closer, many of the men moved in front of the tallest one, who was standing with a girl who couldn't be older than ten. She flashed them a hopefully disarming smile. "Hello! I can tell you are outsiders here as well, so I thought I would introduce myself."

The big one at the front scoffed. "Yeah, real outsiders, we are. We built the other bloody city and we repaired this one without a copper to show for it."

"I meant no offense by it, sir, I had no idea. I'm sure King Menethil will make it right. He seems like a just man."

"He's a real—"

"Enough, Anthony," said the man in the back. He had a smooth voice with a direct tone—this man was a leader. "This woman wasn't trying to insult you or us. She is simply… curious. What do we think about curiosity, Vanessa?"

The girl looked up to the masked man. They had the same raven black hair. "There's no harm in asking questions, so long as you are ready to not like the answers?"

Tyrande had never seen a mask smile before, but the man—clearly her father—stroked Vanessa's hair. "Well done! Well done, indeed." He turned his gaze back to Tyrande. "We are the Defias Brotherhood. Laborers, outcasts, and criminals, all wronged by this kingdom. A rather shiny man came saying one of the most important words people like us can hear."

Tyrande perked a brow. "And that is?"

The big man—Anthony, apparently—chuckled. "'Pardon.' He told us we could come talk to your king and if we behaved, we'd not go to prison and finally get paid."

Realization dawned over Tyrande. "Oh! You must've spoken to Bolvar. It's a real shame the nobles did what they did, but I saw King Menethil himself react to the news and I know it'll be made right."

The leader spoke as the large man sputtered. "The issue being, of course, that the wrong he's intending to right took place about seven years ago. I realize he's only been back a couple of years from exploring every corner of this forsaken world or whatever he was doing, but I would think, Lady Whisperwind, that at some point, one of his various squires or attendants would've brought up the wrong that was wrought while he had his back to his people."

Tyrande gave a polite smile, but her words were less so. "If you know who I am, then I will thank you to have a bit more respect in your tone when you address me. No, actually, I would thank you to have a bit more respect in your tone regardless of who you're talking to. Few people can be condescending and still be worth listening to. I'm over here in a gesture of friendship and acceptance, but now I will speak to you as I should speak to many of your race: an elder to a child. Yes, you were wronged. History will agree. But you were the ones that spent years away, pouting and building your little army of thugs and angry people. You made no effort to seek reparations, outside of in blood. Be thankful he's willing to speak to you. Trifling over something as petty as gold when your city needed you is the very definition of childish. Your child—who still has hope in her eyes, despite apparently being raised by your brotherhood—is owed a better example. I suggest you start today… erm, whatever your name is." During her speech, the rest of the room went silent and watched. There was a smattering of applause before it became apparent that was most likely inappropriate.

"VanCleef. Edwin VanCleef. Leader of the Defias Brotherhood. Engineer. Mason…" he trailed off for a moment, then bowed. "Humbled. The grace of your people is legend, but your fierceness is something no one knew of until now."

"They knew, Edwin. They just didn't live to tell anyone." With that, she strode off to the head of the table, grinning the whole way. She sat down in the middle of the council from the boat (between Muradin and Bolvar, not next to Arthas), all of whom shook her hand or patted her on the back. It shouldn't mean much to her to be accepted into the little boys club of Lordaeron, but shockingly, she felt pretty good. The town crier called for silence, and at once, the hall was still.

Arthas rose to his feet. "Thank you, council of Lordaeron, honored guests, and allies. I gathered you here today for two reasons and I'd rather not waste your time and get right to them. First, as you've all surely noticed, we have former brothers in arms among us once again." There was a collective grumbling. Arthas did not look amused. "Stop that. Who here has always stayed on the right path? No one has ever cut a few corners? No one here has ever felt anger after a misunderstanding? I thought so. Regardless, what Edwin VanCleef and his Defias Brotherhood have done is significantly worse than corner cutting and misunderstandings. We've killed many of them and they've killed many of us. We've killed them for killing us, and they've killed us for killing them. My words sound dull and repetitive, do they not? That's because this cycle of violence is dull and repetitive. But it's also costly. Resources being wasted with humans killing humans. Lives being wasted. Futures cut short. I cannot ask you, VanCleef, to forgive me. I haven't wronged you. The people you are angry about have been relieved of service and asked to leave this city. A new council of nobles is being elected, and with the blessing of our chief architect, Baros Alexston, he would like to offer the engineers and masons places in our own guild of architects. Anyone lacking skills can be brought in and educated or trained accordingly. However, all hostility from your people, all production of weaponry, and all traitorous actions must be halted immediately. What say you, Edwin VanCleef?"

VanCleef's mask was superfluous—his eyes concealed any and all of his thinking better than any fabric could. He quietly chattered with the men around him. Some whispered more loudly than others. Some gestured wildly. He stayed stone still, just looking at them. "Ladies and gentlemen of Lordaeron. I have spent several years speaking for my people. I've lead them into battle and some of you would say into ruin. We found something out there you could never offer us in our freedom. As much as Lordaeron is thriving and as good as it does my heart, I found that not having responsibilities or rules was quite beneficial. I'm happier now." Vanessa started poking his leg. It made him stammer for just a moment. "My people aren't entirely humans. By offering to bring us back, you're offering shelter to ogres and goblins. Have you considered that, your highness?"

Arthas nodded. "I have and they will be accepted, though I hope you will understand if we primarily wish to use the ogres as dock workers and heavy lifters instead of something crucial. Most members of the military and the royalty are used to dealing with goblins, so that won't be an issue as long as they keep their loyalties to the Alliance instead of to the power of gold."

"You are being more than fair, my king, but you are still asking people to trade their integrity and freedom for loyalty to a crown that once abandoned them." Vanessa poked his leg again. "Not now, child," he hissed.

Tyrande spoke before Arthas could. "This is an open floor for members of the Defias Brotherhood. Is the daughter of the kingpin not a member?"

"No, she's not," chimed in Kel'Thuzad, "She is a girl."

"I am a girl," came Tyrande's deadpan response.

"Yes," agreed Jaina, "I am your superior and I am a girl," she continued, giving

Kel'Thuzad looked around, astounded. "I mean a little girl. A-a child!"

Antondias shook his head. "First necromancy and now you've got your foot in your mouth so far you're choking on your knee."

"All I mean is that the opinion of a child doesn't matter much in the grand scheme of things. I'd say that if she was a little boy, too!" he added defensively.

"Relax, KT," said Jaina with a chuckle, "but I disagree, regardless. Her opinion matters because it's her future we're deciding. Speak, m'lady, and be heard."

Edwin's eyes betrayed a mix of pride and anger—defiance, after all, is something he was quite known for, so perhaps she inherited it. Her voice was deep and confident in spite of her age and audience. "I don't understand why we can't have both. Instead of one united army and front, wouldn't a coalition of individuals be better? Let the Defias operate as they are, under my dad, but offer them the shelter and resources of the kingdom. In return, you get access to some of the best brawlers, engineers, and minds to ever grace this land." As she looked around, everyone seemed to be taking her seriously. So she curtsied, quickly adding "Er, your majesty."

Arthas though it over, nodding slowly. "We will need time to discuss this, but I believe you had the most sensible approach to these deliberations." He started clapping without a trace of irony. Tyrande and the others quickly joined in. When it finally died down, Edwin's eyes shone with something completely different as he put an arm around his daughter. "Now, our final and significantly sadder bit of news is that Lady Whisperwind will have to return to her people soon. This is her last night in Lordaeron for this particular visit, but I expect to see her around quite a bit." There was a loud knocking at the door to the chambers. Then several more. "Um, but overall I think this was a success as our two great cultures—" more knocking "—will grow and learn from—" now on the windows "—each other. Open these doors, guards." They did and citizens of Lordaeron started flooding in the room, screaming, crying, and speaking incoherently. "Calm yourselves!" Arthas called out. They mostly did. "What is the meaning of this?"

"T-the docks, your majesty! There's been an attack!"

Arthas snarled. "Let's move."

The scene wasn't as grim as they had previously thought. Four dock workers had lost their lives, but it wasn't anything as catastrophic as the first glance indicated—the docks smoldered in purple ashes with licks of purple flames originally spreading around the rubble, until Jaina identified it as arcane in origin, and between her, Antondias, and Kel'Thuzad, the damage was contained quickly. In the middle, a badly burned but still alive troll at the helm of a wrecked night elf vessel. Tyrande burst into tears of rage at the sight. "I must return. I must find out what these monsters have done to my people."

Arthas began to nod his consent, but Jaina went to her side, putting an arm on her shoulder. "Please, Lady Whisperwind. Give us the time to figure out what happened. It may not be safe for you to go back. I'm asking for hours, not days. Can you trust us—trust me—for that long?" Tyrande nodded, but it was clear she wasn't happy. VanCleef, however, had already paid off. One of his goblins came down to translate, since the troll refused to acknowledge common or any language spoken to him from a human or elf. They didn't have long to talk to him, but healers were keeping him alive as long as they could.

"So whaddya want me to tell this idiot?" Goblins, no matter their allegiance, were always "pleasant".

Jaina scoffed. "What do you think? Ask him how he did this!" The goblin got to it, afraid of invoking Jaina's wrath. He and the troll went back and forth for a few sentences before the goblin looked up nervously. "He's sayin' the Horde have been standin' in the shadow of the Alliance for too long and they're gonna take back their place as the strongest force on Azeroth. He's sayin' that Auberdine was only the beginning."

Tyrande's anger burned brighter than ever, but she was composed enough to speak. "Ask him… ask him how they did this. The Horde have no great knowledge of the arcane."

The goblin nodded, translated, and responded. "He's sayin' alls you need to know is that no elf is safe." Tyrande didn't like that answer. Magical energies glowed in her eyes. The sky around them seemed to get darker. "Hey! Hey! I'm just sayin' what he said!"

"A name!" she demanded. "He will give us the name of the monster that did this!"

The troll looked right over at Tyrande, not needing a translation. "Garrosh Hellscream. Lok'tar… o… gar…" his eyes rolled back in his head as he expired.

Arthas looked vaguely confused. "The son? What does the son have to do with anything? And how did he get a mage? Is this the Kirin Tor's doing?"

Antondias would usually see that as a rather big insult, but in this case, he didn't know. "This wasn't the work of a spell, son. This was a mana bomb. I only know of two civilizations that can handle such a thing. One of them is, indeed, the Kirin Tor."

"And the other?"

Antondias looked over at Jaina, who looked cold and distant. "Silvermoon. High elves weaponized magic like this far before we did."

Arthas growled, but remained otherwise silent as he thought. "I want our men in Quel'thalas. I want so many that no one there can do anything without a Lordaeronian knowing about it. I want no violent actions taken until we know what happened." Various officials started moving about as they were dispatching his orders.

"And I want to go home. Now." It was clear Tyrande wasn't making a formal request.

Arthas, however, had no idea what to do. "Our docks are destroyed and it'll be hours before another ship even arrives. They're all at sea. Jaina, can you—"
"No. We haven't attuned to the ley lines yet. A portal would be unstable at best."

Tyrande rushed up to Arthas, a look of desperate, pleading fury on her face even as she towered above him. "I have to get home! I have to see my people! I will show them that revenge will be granted to us!"

A quiet, silken voice spoke up. "I have a ship. Seaworthy, bigger than anything any of the amateurs at this shipyard could even dream of. It'll hold plenty of troops and rations and I can get you home in under two hours." They turned to look at the man with the outlandish offer: VanCleef. If anyone could do it, it was him.

Tyrande nodded quickly. "Take me home."

"If this vessel cannot survive the Frozen Sea, I will come back here and remove any trace of you or your respective families from this planet. Do we understand each other?"
"Do ya do anything but threaten people, mac? Ya told us what you and your creep buddy want, ya paid, and ya got it. It don't matter how annoyin' ya are, you paid. It's done. Now get out of Ratchet." The goblin and his crew left Gul'dan and his two-man entourage. Disrespect was something he'd killed many people for, but his allies were few in this world. That and, though he'd never admit it, the constant manipulation he'd had to do to everyone around him had started to take its toll on him. Shar'lak's final form was a masterpiece and a monstrosity—the risen corpses of several Kor'kron stitched together in Scourge fashion. While they were often mindless, hulking beasts, this one had the mind of Shar'lak, which made it a cold, calculating mass of muscle, brawn, steel, and fire, when the need called for it. The issue was that he spared virtually nothing—Shar'lak was now about fifteen feet tall, had eight arms, four legs, but thankfully only one head, which used to belong to an ancient orc.

"Perhaps you were right, master. The goblins didn't stare at me for too long," came the throaty growl now belonging to Shar'lak.

"They were too busy counting their coins. No, you'll be quite the attraction when the time is right. Secure the passenger and check the improvements the goblins have made. I must meditate a few moments before we go." Gul'dan left, knowing Shar'lak—his will finally broken in this new body—would follow his orders. He walked over to a large tree that was providing shade from the harsh sun. In any other world, at any other time, the warlock Gul'dan meditating under a large tree in a public settlement would've been alarming. But here, no one knew what he was up to. Not yet. He closed his eyes.

Thrall could hear the cheers of the crowd from far outside Dire Maul. The Horde had a shaky understanding with the ogres when it came to gladiatorial combat, one dating back to the old days of Draenor, otherwise Thrall wouldn't be anywhere near this broken place. The voice of the crowd grew to a fever pitch. Though he couldn't understand the announcer from here, it was clear the match was over. They started chanting for "Croc-bait", and once again the announcer said something. Judging by the booing from the crowd, he had been honest with them. Perhaps it would be best for Thrall to go around the back. The purple stones jiggled together in his satchel, giving him a bit of urgency in his step. Had it already been too long?

Gul'dan's eyes opened. He was already grinning malevolently before even being fully aware of how much time had passed. Shar'lak waited faithfully at his side. "Master. It is nearly dusk. We should move."

"Yes," Gul'dan replied, standing up slowly, "Our mission is nearly over." He started heading to his ship, Shar'lak just behind him.

"Perhaps my master would like to divulge that plan after all these years."

"Perhaps he wouldn't," he replied, stepping shakily onto the plank to board. "I require time alone with our new guest. Cast us off and start our journey."

"As my master wills." Shar'lak had to practice for quite some time to bow in this hulking form, but he managed to on his first try this time. His stomping, lumbering steps went all the way to the helm before coming to a stop. The human man on the deck with him never really paid him any mind.

"Do you know who I am?"

The human nodded. "A ghost."

"Close enough. Do you know who you are?"

The human nodded again. "Croc-bait."

"Not quite, no. I'd say it's time you learn."

Thrall was an instant celebrity everywhere he went. People who didn't know him had at least heard of him, and even this shrouded, back entrance to the gladiator preparation room was still full of fans of his. In order to navigate through, he threw out blessings on their weapons as quickly as he could. Tonight, unfortunately, would probably see quite a bit of bloodshed in the arena with lava, wind, and rock enhanced weaponry. But he'd sacrificed so much to get this far. Rehgar was not only his friend, but a capable healer. Surely he could help Thrall mend the land and the people in it. That would make up for the wrongs he was doing to his people. Or so he hoped. When he was down to only one gladiator left for the blessing, he spoke in a hushed tone. "Lok'tar, friend. Can you help me find someone?"

"If they already fought, you'll find them in the pit. No real winners today."

"No, no. I'm looking for the orc in charge of this place. Rehgar Earthfury."

"Oh! Everyone knows of him. He's up top now in the stands."
Thrall gave a confused cringe. "Is he… himself? Is he normal?"

"He's been acting quite strangely the last few days, now that you mention it. He always used to fight and speak with such fury, but now he's almost lifeless."

Thrall briefly rested a hand on the gladiator's shoulder. "Thank you, friend. Ancestors go with you. I must see him immediately."

Even the misty trails left by the water were enough to chill to the bone. Gul'dan had experienced worse and the human gave no sign of caring about it. Land loomed in the distance. "Are you ready for today's lesson?"
"Does it matter? You will continue regardless and say what you claim to be the truth."

"It is the truth, your majesty."

"It can't be. You claim the man Arthas is still alive and even has an heir. If I am who you say I am, I'm in the wrong family and several generations behind. If you claim he is my friend, then why would I want to kill him and his family to take his throne? We are not orcs. We respect life." Gul'dan couldn't help but notice that the man was looking in Shar'lak's general direction during that particular comment.

"Do not fool yourself, human. The only differences between an orc and a human is skin tone and self-importance. You respect the lives of the people you care about, but all life? How many people have you killed in the arena?"

"Dozens. I killed them because I had no choice."

"No, your majesty, you did. Just as all slaves have a choice. You could have chosen to die. You chose your life over others. Most people would, but don't pretend that you didn't have a choice."

"Brave words from a necromancer. Life has even less value to someone like you who can so quickly manipulate the dead. You've told me who you are, Gul'dan. How many times have you died?"

"I see. So you believe who I say I am?"

"It fits. You travel with a sewn together corpse and you radiate such a dark, creepy energy that you have to be someone quite powerful. But I am no king. Killing is the only thing I'm good at."

"Ha! That is possibly the greatest credential to kingship there is."

"Not a good king."

Thrall pushed his way up through the people in the stands. He could see Rehgar's armor, but not his face. He tried to be courteous to the people who still halted him in his tracks, but it became more of a constant push forward without speaking. Time was running out.

The shores of the land called Dragonblight loomed ahead. They'd make landfall soon. "You are much smarter than any gladiator has any right to be, your majesty. Surely that should tell you that you weren't born into fighting."

"Intellect isn't a sign of anything. Ogres can communicate. Some can even cast spells. They're still more stupid than pack animals, and even then, pack animals will listen to commands."

A croaky voice called out: "Landing imminent! Brace yourselves!" The goblins had done an outstanding job, truth be told. Even the rather pathetic strength of elven craft was more than enough after the goblins added to it. The boat came to a stop on the iced-over sandy shore.

"I'm not getting off of this ship. I'm thankful for my release, but you do not own me."

"I can prove your identity to you. Not far from here, I can speak to an old friend and with a simple magic spell, you will have your memory back."

"If it's so simple, why can't you do it now?"

"I'm a necromancer, remember? I can do many things with a soul or body, but a living mind? Well, I can break it and hurt it, but I can't help it."

"Rehgar!" Thrall cried out, trying to be heard over the roar of the crowd. "Rehgar, old friend! Can you hear me?" Thrall took one of the orbs out of his satchel. It may have been his imagination, but it felt slightly warmer than the other. Surely, it must be Rehgar's soul trying to get back to his body. Thrall smiled—this was worth it.

The human actually seemed interested in this. "This friend of yours… are they far from here?"

"No. Only a few hours of walking away, but you must listen to every word I say and follow it. Do you understand me?"

"I do, but it's a matter of if I want to. You are definitely not a good man."

"No, I'm not. I've made a lifetime of collecting, harvesting, and manipulating souls."

"Said so casually that you are surely a trustworthy man."

"Oh, I am. I respect my craft. Souls aren't bargaining chips meant to gamble with."

Thrall tossed the orb up and down a few times. This was it. Gul'dan had said to destroy it and release the soul within. He threw the orb down as hard as he could right in front of Rehgar. It shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.

"So you're honest about a horrible thing. Does that make you trustworthy?"
"I have not told you a single lie this entire trip, your majesty. Please, trust me only a few hours longer and it will all come together."

That finally got Rehgar's attention. "What? Who did this? Put them in—" He turned around. "Oh! Thrall! Good to see you, brother. It's so horrible. They took my favorite gladiator away. I've been in mourning these last few weeks." Thrall's relief shifted to appalled anger. Gul'dan had deceived him. The "soulstones" were nothing more than purple orbs of glass. He turned and left immediately, howling with rage.

"You have three hours. Lead the way, necromancer."

"This way, Varian."

Part 3: Ascension

The chill in the abandoned cavern felt as if it had doubled in the years since Gul'dan had first arrived. It took quite some time, but Shar'lak managed to move all the boulders blocking access to the cursed cave. "Your time ran out about two hours ago, necromancer."

Gul'dan only had to remain respectful a short while longer. "Oh, it is good of your majesty to humor me this long, but I only ask for a few minutes longer. We couldn't have known about the cave in, surely you realize that." Shar'lak took a moment to shift the boulders a tad, just in case "Croc-bait" could smell or see the fel burns on the back of them.

"Regardless, I don't see how you could possibly have a friend in there. Not a living friend, anyway." "Croc-bait" tilted his head for a moment. "Not that that matters to a man like you, I'm sure."

"His majesty is very droll, indeed. No, he is in there. Alive and well. Just allow me a moment to confer with him and your journey will be at an end, while your rule begins."

"Croc-bait" nodded and just looked on at the cave. Gul'dan bowed deeply and headed out. As he passed Shar'lak, the large amalgamation put a hand on his master's shoulder. "How did you know he would wait?"

Gul'dan snorted. "Can you name a man—especially a human man—that wouldn't want to be a king?" Shar'lak grinned a response. "Our trials are almost at an end, Shar'lak. This world is ours." Gul'dan's voice nearly had gratitude in it, or what passed for it. He stepped inside the cavern. It hadn't changed at all since he had arrived there all those years ago. Of course, how could it? A cave full of ice, stalactites, stalagmites, and despair that got sealed in with a fel-assisted rock slide wasn't going to improve. In the middle of the cave, on a slight rise of rock and ice, a sword was embedded in solid ice aside from the hilt. A blue skulled hilt, jagged edges… it meant nothing to Gul'dan, but according to the Hellscream boy, it was important to human history. Inside the sword, though, was Gul'dan's prize. "Are you awake, old friend?"

The little light in the cave seemed to fade out of existence. Gul'dan was surrounded by a whisper. "I would tell you that you are dead, but I have been as well. For longer, in fact."

"I would say it's good to see you, Ner'zhul, but I can't."

"Nor will you. You speak only to my spirit. I considered asking you to leave. You ruined an incredibly well laid plan with the human king."

"Yes, I did. I brought you another one."

"There is only one human king, unless I've been asleep much longer than I thought."

Gul'dan laughed. Even when genuine, his laughs were cold enough to chill the air even further. "I'm not the same Gul'dan you may have known. I'm better. I'm from a world where Grom was too weak to bring strength to the orcs. If your plan had succeeded, the Alliance and Horde would've united long enough to destroy the king you corrupt and another one would rise. The Horde never really gains strength, but neither does the Alliance. So I brought you their warrior king."

There was a long contemplative silence. "This may not mean much coming from me, but you are meddling in powers beyond your comprehension. They are beyond mine as well."

"So help me comprehend them, my friend. You are a spirit, I'm dead in two realities, including this one. We can only gain for the Horde. We have already lost. Any ground we gain is a gift."

"You are hoping to use this world as some sort of experiment, then?"

Gul'dan shook his head. "No, not an experiment. An army. I'm going to take the king and his followers and repel the invaders from my world, all the way back to their pathetic homes."

"And how are you going to get back?"
"My assistant is waiting at the edge of the cave. He manipulated the body of a bronze dragon to get us here and I suspect he can do it again. If not, well, one world will have to suffice."

Another overwhelming silence. "Bring your human. Take him to the precipice of Icecrown Glacier and adorn him in the Plate of the Damned. Place the crown on his head. You will have your army, Gul'dan, and I will have my champion." The presence in the air around Gul'dan faded. He turned back to the entrance of the cave. "The spell has been cast, your majesty. He was even kind enough to put it in a weapon befitting a man of your grandeur."

The sound of crunching snow echoed through the cave. "Croc-bait" was making his way in. "Where is your friend? I would like to thank them if this spell is going to work as well as you seem to think."

"It was a strong spell, my lord. He requires meditation. However, he did tell me that simply helping you recover your memory was payment enough. He's a good man."

"I'm sure the type of people that would associate with a necromancer are always called 'good'." He gestured up at the sword. "Is that it? It's not my style. I prefer two weapons. One to attack, one to defend and counterattack. One large weapon is simply too slow."

Gul'dan was only a few steps away from his plan coming to fruition, but those steps were halted by a simple man who wanted two swords instead of one. "It's the finest made sword in all the world, your majesty. If you want another one, we can get it made to your specifications. Don't you think it would mean a lot more coming from a king, though? What smith would deny the true ruler of the Alliance?"
This got "Croc-bait" moving. "So touching this sword is supposed to give me my memory back?"

"Yes, your majesty. It'll all come flooding in."

For a tense moment, "Croc-bait" loomed over the sword. It was expertly crafted, he could tell even from there with half of it in the ground. The skull was a bit much. He would've been enamored with it as a teenager, perhaps, but skulls were a bit over the top for an adult. Still, a perfectly balanced blade in the hands of a warrior like him? The conquests that would be had! But why would an orc help him? The orc had said he had qualms with the Menethil leadership, but he had no love for orcs either—obviously, after forcing him into gladiatorial combat, "Croc-bait" didn't either. It was no matter. The old orc was frail. Not weak, not by any means, but definitely frail. "What, am I supposed to break the ice it's encased in?"

"If you are meant to wield it—if you are who I claim you are—the ice will break for you. It was meant for you, your majesty."

Now that seemed suspicious. A weapon for him when even he didn't know who he was? This orc knew more than he was letting on. "Croc-bait" began stepping away from the sword. "There's more to my story, orc. I wish to hear what you know of me."

Anger started bubbling up in Gul'dan. "You are but mere inches away from learning your own fate, your majesty. Why do you need me to tell you a single word of it?"

"Because you know an awful lot about me. You told me about a wife, a son, an entire kingdom I've never even heard of. I'm here in the middle of ice, snow, and darkness on some fool's errand to regain my memory, and you say it's in this sword? I say you're full of kodo droppings."

The anger started bubbling out of Gul'dan's eyes in the form thin trails of green fire. "If you are fool enough to deny your own legacy and power, then I wish you would have told me on the ship so I could have cast you aside and watched the life drain from your eyes. Do you think I care which king holds the banner of the Alliance dogs? I simply wanted to right a wrong that the Menethil family did to this world. No one holds them accountable for their actions because they rule. You could reclaim your throne and either use this chance encounter as a means to create peace between our warring nations or continue slaughtering the Horde as you see fit. It does not matter to me. I have no stakes in this game."

"Croc-bait" pointed an accusatory finger in Gul'dan's face. "I don't think I trust you, necromancer, not that I ever did." He turned to move past Gul'dan and leave the cave.

Suddenly, it became obvious how this would have to come to pass. Gul'dan hadn't done this in a long time, but channeling fel energy into a great ball of fire, he threw it past "Croc-bait", not intending to hit him. It had the intended effect—the human came charging back. Unfortunately for Gul'dan, the prowess of the man's fighting skills had been greatly understated. He was faster and more accurate than any orc he'd ever sparred with. In fact, Gul'dan only barely moved in time to avoid being caught right in the jaw with a straight punch, though now his left shoulder would sport a fist-shaped bruise for the impending future. He gathered the shadows to grip "Croc-bait" back and away from him, long shadowy tendrils wrapping around the human's body to snatch him away from Gul'dan.

Unfortunately, that was another miscalculation: "Croc-bait" pushed off of the ground and broke himself free from the tendrils. His whole form came crashing down on Gul'dan. Blow after furious blow rained down on his face. In one brief moment of respite, Gul'dan opened his mouth and belched a column of fel-flame across "Croc-bait's" chest. He flew back instantly, smearing snow on the wound. "Come on, human weakling," Gul'dan taunted, spitting out blood onto the floor, "It will take more than a few punches to down me. I'm not even trying." To prove his point, Gul'dan started waving his hands, channeling open a demonic portal. Nothing was coming through, but the sound of collective grunting, growling, and cackling was enough to put the fear of death into "Croc-bait". He turned to run, but Shar'lak now occupied the exit.

He needed a weapon. The ice around the sword shattered as he ran towards it. Gul'dan shot tiny flares of fire at the shattered shards of ice flying through the air, sparing himself any collateral damage. "Croc-bait" stopped, once again getting that sinking feeling as he neared the sword, but his momentum and speed were too great. His hand closed around the hilt of the sword, which easily dislodged itself. A vortex of arctic air swallowed him up as memories of what was and what could be flooded his mind. Gul'dan smirked, closing off the demon portal. When the wind subsided, "Croc-bait" stood tall, his skin slightly more pale than it had been. "What is your name, human?"

There was a slight blue glow to the man's eyes. "Varian Wrynn."

"Yes, Lord Wrynn. Your destiny awaits you in Icecrown Glacier. Once we finish your journey, we will take you back to your people." Gul'dan headed towards the exit of the cave, but Varian didn't move. "What troubles you, your majesty?"
Varian spun the sword in his hand expertly, though he looked down at his empty freehand, knowing he was missing a second weapon. "Frostmourne… hungers."

Sylvanas was never one to be restricted, especially not in her own home. For once, though, she was wrong—the humans had sent several regiments through their portals, along with a few groups of dwarves. Though they came under the banner of safety and friendship, Sylvanas couldn't help but see this as an occupation. Captain Fordragon didn't do much to change her mind, but he tried to assure her that due to the recent attack on the other elves, they wanted to protect her elves as well. He sounded vaguely ignorant and racist, so it seemed like a fairly standard human response. She did her best to distract the higher ups so they wouldn't ask too many questions, so every night the streets of Silvermoon hummed with life until the early morning or until the wine ran out, whichever came first. She never partook, just an opening glass to celebrate, then she'd return to her home. In truth, she didn't actually know that the orcs would be able to construct a mana bomb so quickly. She suspected payoffs here or there and had conducted her own investigation to find out which families had recently inherited large sums of money, but it was to no avail. She'd heard that the crater of Auberdine had turned from a glowing purple pile of rubble into a glowing green one, so it was probably one of their fel tainted orcs using their demon magic. It wouldn't be the first time an orc had messed something up that should be relatively simple by involving their disgusting blood. Regardless, did she regret it? Of course not. Now she had an Alliance army in her home and no hostilities with the Horde. Her people would survive.

Then why was the door to her modest home on the outskirts of Eversong Woods open? She drew her bow and readied an arrow, creeping silently in. Nothing in her home was disturbed, though a golden apple was missing from a bowl of fruit she kept. Her tracking skills were second to none, but she couldn't even detect the faintest sign of anyone else in her home. Maybe they'd already left? She went room to room, though there weren't many, and her search came to a stop in her bedroom. A sleeping, malnourished elf laid there without a care in the world. She was even snoring every few breaths. Sylvanas poked her with her bow. "Excuse me? Are you aware of where you are?"
The elf—Valeera Sanguinar—looked up at her lazily. "A bed."

"A bed in my home."

"Obviously," Valeera said, laying back down.

Sylvanas made an astonished gasping noise. "I'm trying to tell you to leave or I'm going to put an arrow through your heart, not commenting on your exact location."

Valeera grunted. "Menethil sent me."

"Of course he did," Sylvanas sighed. "I'd be glad to give you the nicest room in the Silvermoon Inn. Most of the Lordaeron army is there now and I'm sure you don't want to be far from your people."

"Can't."

Sylvanas waited a moment for there to be more of the sentence. "Becaaaause…"

"Orders." She nestled more tightly into the pillow and covers.

Sylvanas poked her with her bow again. "Hey! Don't go to sleep when I'm talking to you! I want answers."

"Boring. Tired. Sleep." She burrowed even further.

"I won't let you sleep in my bed until I have answers! …or at all! Get out!" She started tugging and pulling at the mattress, trying to get Valeera to budge. Finally, with a shriek of effort, she toppled the whole thing over, sending Valeera tumbling to the ground. Or so she thought—she felt the cold steel of a dagger pressed against her throat before she could even prod Valeera again.

"Don't," Valeera said. Though she still lacked much tone, there was definitely anger in that one word.

"Then talk. I could've killed you a few times by now and I would have if you weren't an elf. There aren't enough of us to spill even one drop of blood needlessly."

The dagger got pulled away from her throat. Valeera fixed the bed and quickly flopped down on it. "Morning." Before Sylvanas could object again, she heard soft snoring noises. Clearly, this conversation was over. How annoying.

Sylvanas didn't get much sleep that night, preferring instead to stew in her fury. When Valeera got up from bed, Sylvanas was waiting. "Speak. See? I can do one word sentences too."

Valeera took a nibble of the apple she had started previously. "Bomb."

"I've heard. What about it?"

"Yours?"

Sylvanas wasn't sure why, but she didn't feel as if she could lie to Valeera directly. But in this case, she had to try. "I heard about it and I understand why you'd think it was me, but it wasn't. I've had too much to worry about here with the Wretched and defending my people."

Valeera silently nibbled her apple, just studying Sylvanas.

"Anything else? May I go about my day now, mother?"

Valeera snorted. "Go."

Sylvanas grabbed her gear and started to leave. However, there was a muffled set of footsteps behind her. "I said I'm going about my day now."

Valeera nodded, nibbling away. "Yep."

"Well," Sylvanas said, speeding up to leave, "You aren't coming with me."

"I am," Valeera said from behind her, easily keeping pace.

"Your dear Menethil may not respect my sovereignty, but my sister and I are the queens of this land and I won't be bullied by some porcelain doll searching for the proper adhesive to put herself back together." She closed the distance between herself and Valeera. "I most likely say it too much, but I will say it again: my people are at war. I have no time for games." Her storming off after making her point was unfortunately countered by Valeera following her, step for step, in utter silence. She decided to alter her course and head directly for Silvermoon. Valeera followed—she had no reason to know this was out of the norm. Her city was normally bustling by now with street vendors and apprentice spell casters hurling various types of energy at the walls of the buildings. They weren't generally very good at this point, so scorch marks and icicles were few and far between. Though there was this one time that a student talked Kael'thas Sunstrider into a demonstration—thankfully, that part of the city had just got done being rebuilt. Still, today was a stark difference, as every day had been since the humans arrived: most of the city was sleeping or hungover even though it was nearly midday. The older and younger citizens were out and about, having not partaken in the festivities, and they all gave bows or excitedly came up to Sylvanas, depending on if they could contain themselves or not. However, she had one particular destination in mind.

It was disgusting seeing the Wayfarer's Rest so full. That's not true—usually if it was this full, there were paying guests staying in every room instead of passed out humans and their one night cohorts. If they were here on a mission of "protection", Sylvanas had never felt her city quite so vulnerable. She began clapping loudly, adding loud exclamations of "Hey!" after each clap to get them awake. They all began stirring, many of them holding their heads immediately after. "Alright, dogs, I'm looking for your leader. Where is he? Anyone? Anyyyyoooone?"

"Up here, Lady Windrunner," came Bolvar's gruff response from upstairs.

She nodded, stepping over and on the various Lordaeronian army men. "I feel so much safer with all of you here. Thank you so very much for your service." By the time she made it upstairs, Bolvar was already sitting at the dining table in his room, hand drawing a map of the area. "Is this what you call 'protection'? I was given assurance you were here to help with the Wretched."

"We are," he said, still stenciling in roads leading to the city, "But you'll notice there aren't any and you're the one that set us up here. One can hardly blame wood for burning once it's thrown into the fire."

"Be that as it may, I won't suffer your lies longer than I have to. This is an occupation."

Bolvar shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "It's an investigation more than anything. We know the orcs couldn't have made a mana bomb on their own."

"What's my motivation, then? Why would I supply it to them?"

"The same reason you came to us. You want to make sure your people don't face other threats. I can hardly blame you if you did, but that doesn't mean there wasn't an egregious loss of life as a result."

He was being somewhat reasonable, much to her shock. She crossed the room and grabbed a spare quill, helping him draw out the area map. "You missed the lake outside."

"Oh, we didn't pass it. There was some simpleton out by your gates speaking in rather tasteless tones and we wanted to get around him. Well, I wanted to get around him before my men punched him out."

She snorted. "Jero'me. A noble's son. You'd be surprised how much humans and the Quel'dorei have in common when it comes to arrogance among the upper class."

Bolvar laughed, but let out a hum of discontent afterwards. "I would not say we're arrogant, exactly. I'd say we know we have the shortest lifespan on the planet and some of us don't react well to that knowledge. Some choose to serve. Some choose to preach. Some choose to write poetry about how large someone's rear is."

Sylvanas laughed out loud before she could stop herself, but she quickly regained her composure. "Regardless, if your men are here to protect my people, they should be out with my people instead of in with my people. And I want that Sanguinar woman gone."

Bolvar stopped his sketching. "Valeera? What about her?"
"Don't play dumb."

"I assure you, I'm not playing." He scrunched his eyes shut, realizing what he had just said, before continuing. "I assure you, rather, that I have no idea what you mean. She's not here with us."

"She said Menethil sent her."
"That wouldn't surprise me, Lady Windrunner, but if he did, I have no knowledge of it. I can tell you my orders if it will please you."

"It will."

"He told me to make sure I have enough men here to take over the city if you try anything, but to otherwise do what you ask and help with the Wretched incursion because we don't know with any certainty that you were the reason behind the attack."

"That's all he said, is it?" Her voice was rather piercing and accusatory.

Bolvar held his right hand up, as if taking an oath. "I swear it on the Light."

Sylvanas was quiet, considering if he was being honest or not. "Just so you know, you don't have nearly enough men to take the city. Most of my army specializes in multi-target combat and the rest of it can rain fire from the sky."

"And just so you know, our armor has all been warded against the arcane thanks to Jaina and the Kirin Tor. We can't do anything against the expertise of your bow or your spellbreakers—yes, I know what they're called—but we can at least not get blown up should it come to it. I am not your enemy, Lady Windrunner. I've been fighting for our kingdoms for longer than I care to remember, and even that has been a small fraction of your life. But I'm still a man who serves his king and kingdom, and my king and kingdom need me here."

Sylvanas felt a rush of gratitude for Bolvar. Though he was still as misinformed and ignorant as the average human, he did seem to have some nobility in him. "I appreciate your service, Lord Fordragon. In the spirit of friendship, can you at least take Sanguinar home with you? She gives me the creeps."

"If you can catch her and bring her to me, I will at least ask her about the details of her assignment. I can't promise more than that."

Looking behind her, Sylvanas realized that Valeera hadn't followed her in. Of course not. "Well then, I will take my leave and continue my journey. Should your men wake up in decent enough shape, the largest concentration of attacks have been in the south," she said, pointing at a portion of his map, "Here. My sister has it under control, but I wouldn't object to someone watching over her while I make my rounds."

"Don't underestimate my men, Lady Windrunner. We're allied with dwarves—we can fight through several days of hard drinking." He smirked at her. Sylvanas left, feeling confused that she may actually not entirely hate that man. Naturally, the second she left, a rail-thin shadow started tailing her again.

Gul'dan was a mix of shocked, pleased, and disgusted with the ruthlessness of this lost king. He was different than the one Hellscream told him about—apparently the intended Lich King was a master of necromancy and bringing about the cold dark. This one, so far, had only used magic powers as a means to freeze foes in place and used long, shadowy tendrils to strangle them. Perhaps he'd change in time. Nevertheless, they moved on through Northrend, visiting towns and back-end outposts, looking for the best smith in Northrend. As they neared Icecrown, Varian was growing more restless. In fact, he vowed that this would be the last stop.

Varian had turned almost completely pale, his dark brown hair now sporting a few white streaks. The smith in this town, a lost dwarf from Arthas' expedition years ago, wasn't particularly compliant. "I've seen what this land does, lad. I'm not gunnae help no one goin' to Icecrown, especially not one who looks like ye." He was old, gnarled, and completely bald, even of the trademark dwarven beard.

"I did not ask you for help," came Varian's deeply whispered reply, "I offered you money for a service. If you like, we can trade. I have something very valuable."

"How valuable are we talkin'?"

He raised Frostmourne. One long, shadowy rope slinked out of the sword and it started entangling the dwarf. "Your life. Dwarves live long lives and you've lived most of it, but I see another twenty winters in your life. Or…" The robes tightened, raising him up in the air as he turned red from the pressure on his body. "It can be zero. All I am asking is for a dwarven forged weapon. I've tried orcs, humans, and elves. None have been able to withstand my might. So what do you say, dwarf? Your life for a weapon."

"Well, when ye put it like tha', I s'pose I cannae help but agree," the dwarf spurted out. He was set on the ground without another word. "But it's gonna take time. Gettin' the forges warm in this part of the world—" Varian waved his hand and like that, the snow and ice cleared from the dwarf's hut. "Uh. Alright then, but it still takes time to warm up the—" Gul'dan snapped his fingers and a fel green flame erupted from underneath the forge. The metal encasing of the forge and the tools around it were superheated almost instantly. "Fine, but I still dunnae have any materi—" Shar'lak dumped several pallets of ore into the roasting pit to remove the impurities from it. "Fer the light's sake, why do ya even need me then?"

"Because you have several decades more experience in forging than I do. If anyone can make a weapon worthy of me, it's you."

"That's nice of ye to say, but—" He sniffed the air, eyes going wide. "Is that Saronite? I ain't touchin' nothin' like that! It's cursed!"
"You're smarter than such superstitions, dwarf," said Gul'dan, "This ore is no more cursed than this land is."

"That's pretty bloody cursed! Don't ye have anything else? Titanium is amazin' if you can get your hands on it." Shar'lak dumped more ore into the refinery. It was definitely titanium. The dwarf pinched the bridge of his nose, which was no small feat. "Fine. Fine. I was gonna say somethin' about the temperin' and coolin' process but I bet you can just shoot some ice out of your great, horrible sword there, right?"

Varian nodded.

"I need the big creepy one to help me with a mold. I mostly smith fer dwarves and you are a fair sight bigger." Shar'lak moved to the dwarf without another word. Hours passed and with the aforementioned blast of ice from the great, horrible sword, Varian had a new weapon before him. "I see ya got a sword, and if ya dunnae want a shield, then ya gotta use an axe. Them elves use swordbreakers or wee daggers, but with an axe, ya have more options." He picked the axe up—it was nearly as big as he was. As he displayed what to do with it, he wrapped leather around the hilt. "If yer fast enough, ya can catch their weapon right here—" he pointed to where the head of the axe stuck out from the base of it, "—and ye can do the same thing with a shield. Or a helmet if that's what yer doin', and I suspect it is. If ya hold it down at the bottom, ye can swing it like a hammer, but this hammer's got a great sharp bit." The axe was mostly a glowing green with a shiny silver blade. Even though it was rushed, it was a great piece of work. "I could probably do better with more time and less cursed ore, but this is a fine weapon." He presented it to Varian, who took it in his free hand.

"Time will tell, dwarf." His fingers locked around the hilt. It was balanced. Extremely well made, especially under the extreme pressure it was crafted under. A few seconds later, Frostmourne glowed a brilliant blue. Shards of ice assaulted the weapon quickly and violently. It shattered to the onslaught.

"Well if ye were gonna do that, why didn't you tell me? I have training swords for the wee ones that didn't take hours of my life to make!"
Varian clapped his hands together, clearing the remnants of the shattered weapon off of his gauntlets. "I didn't do it, dwarf. Frostmourne did. It felt the weapon was unworthy to be used alongside it. I must admit that I disagree." Varian pursed his lips. "Shar'lak. Pay the man." The amalgamation looked at Gul'dan for confirmation, and he received a baffled nod. A large sack of gold was dropped at the dwarf's feet. His eyes went wide in shock.

"Are ya sure? I ain't made this much money in my life."

"Then don't waste it." Varian turned and left, heading towards the last leg of their journey.

"Is there a reason you spared him, your majesty?" Gul'dan sounded highly skeptical.

"Yes. I traded him his life for a weapon."

"You don't have a weapon."

"That's not his fault."

Gul'dan scoffed, his brow furrowing. "You killed the other ones."

"I traded them gold for a weapon. I traded him his life. A good king keeps his word," he replied matter-of-factly.

Gul'dan frowned when Varian couldn't see him. Frostmourne's corruption wasn't taking hold as quickly as he had hoped if he was still being so human. "His majesty is just, indeed. Our final stretch looms above us. Are you ready, my king?" Varian didn't answer, he simply kept moving forward—and in the right direction.

At some point in the journey, Gul'dan gave up and made Shar'lak carry him on his back like a mount. Varian didn't falter, and before him, a great throne room on top of a glacier. "This is what our journey was for? You told me I was the king of the Alliance. Lordaeron's throne is the one for me, not this farce. What good is a king that reigns away from his people?"

Shar'lak eased Gul'dan down onto the frost covered floor. "This isn't your throne room, your majesty. This is your final step to claiming what's yours. Do you see the armor up there? That is the armor of a king." A full suit of grey armor sat on the throne, as if it ruled with or without a body. It was covered in frost and spikes. The helmet would consume most of its wearer's face, leaving only their eyes and mouth apparent.

"I can't deny the effect it would have, but that is not the armor of a human king. But I can change that. Shar'lak, grab it. We're going back to that dwarf."

Gul'dan shuddered, unable to contain himself. "Blasphemy! Do you think you can improve on the craftsmanship of the elder demons? You, a mere human?"

"I think humans have been staving off demons and their lackeys for much longer than I've been alive and we will continue you. So yes, I can improve on their flawed crafts. All humans can, necromancer."

Gul'dan sputtered uselessly. He should kill the insolent boy where he stood, but then all these years of planning would fall by the wayside. "Do it, Shar'lak," he said, before quietly adding "But be ready to put him down if you need to."

Back down the mountain they went. The dwarf, this time, utterly refused. "You can make fun of me not wantin' ta touch the cursed ore, but there ain't no way I'm layin' a hand on that!"

"You don't have to," Varian assured him, "I simply require your forge and a set of tools."

"I… I can't do it, lad. If ya touch that, you're cursed. You're worse than dead."

"That's the price I will pay, then. Stay in your home. I will be gone in a few hours."

Blasphemy, blasphemy, blasphemy. A whisper repeated itself over and over in Gul'dan's head. He recognized it to be Ner'zhul's.

I cannot stop him, old friend. Let him have this and our domination will come to fruition, he replied, hoping Ner'zhul could hear him. The frantic buzzing in his ears stopped. Hopefully that meant he did.

In the hours that passed, Varian shaped and carved the previously unmovable metal. Between Frostmourne and his own brute strength, he was able to make the armor his own. Using crushed berries and herbs, he died the dull grey plate a blood red, though the grey did refuse to be drowned out in a few places. Many of the bulky plates and spikes remained, but the pauldrons were reshaped—a gargoyle over the right shoulder and a wolf's skull over the other. As he put piece by piece on, his skin and hair grew paler while his eyes started glow a more brilliant blue. That left one piece. He placed the helm over the smithing hammer.

"Why tamper with perfection, your majesty?" Gul'dan's voice was shaky and weary—part fatigue and part "watching a human desecrate a sacred object."

"This is not perfection. I want them to see my face. I want them to know who has come for them. I want them to see their failure." He drove the hilt of Frostmourne down on the helm with great force. There was a shriek of metal on metal (though it sounded like there was an actual vocal shriek in there as well). Again and again he drove it down until he was left with a broken, jagged crown. No top, no faceplate, just a jagged red-and-grey strip of metal. When it slipped over his head, he staggered back, putting a hand up to his head.

"Are-are you alright, your majesty?" There was hope in Gul'dan's voice—maybe he could be turned.

Varian's voice was always deep, but it was proud and clear. He wanted the world to hear his message. Since grasping Frostmourne, it had turned into a harsh whisper. The voice that came out of his mouth now was entirely different—a loud and clear growl. "Yes, Gul'dan, necromancer and leader of the Shadow Council. Your services are no longer required of your king."

Gul'dan saw this coming. He couldn't help but laugh. "You insolent little whelp. You have a small taste of power for less than a day and you think you can compare to the centuries of power I've accumulated?" His form was engulfed in green fel fire, rendering most of the road in the small village a soggy mess. "The power going through your hollow skull right now was perfected by one of my oldest allies. Do you not think I know every single one of your tricks?"

Varian tested that theory with a wave of ice traveling along the ground. Gul'dan carelessly flicked flames at it. It split into two, so he flicked more out. They split again, and it kept going and going until it reached him in hundreds of tiny shards. The fire he had surrounded himself in flared up, finally dissipating the attack. "I admit that was new, but do you really think ice can withstand fire?" He raised his hand to the sky and a huge green meteor fell right at Varian. The impact made the doors and windows around them shake. In the middle of the impact zone, Varian laid in a crumpled heap, struggling to stand. "Look at you. You think you can rule? You think you can manage anything without me? Without me, you'd still be slinging dirt at feeble orcish slaves!" He flung a long trail of flame along the ground. It quickly overtook Varian. He reeled in pain but got himself to his feet. "I didn't say you could stand, boy." The flames shot up even higher. Icicles dropped off of the trees in the near distance—even Gul'dan broke a sweat from the heat, but Varian still stood. He clenched his right hand into a fist, raised it to the sky, and in his left hand, he thrust Frostmourne into the ground. Immediately, he was incased in a block of seemingly impenetrable block of ice. Gul'dan's assault ceased, but his laughter did not. "You dare, you DARE insult and threaten me and retreat back to this pathetic bit of peasant magic? You have the power of one of the greatest and most powerful beings to ever walk the realms coursing through your mind and you managed to make me flick my wrist a few times. Well done indeed, your majesty." He started moving up towards the block of ice, shooting little balls of flame at it here and there. Chunks fell off with every cast. "What in the world will you do when you thaw? Will you chill a nice brandy for us? Maybe you'll clap your hands and start a snow storm—I bet the kids will love that trick." He raised his hand and threw a full ball of flame. The block chipped down to almost just an outline of Varian. "A shame when a plan that takes years has failed. A true shame. But alas, sometimes the phoenix needs a bit of help becoming a pile of ashes before it can be reborn." His arms shuddered as he channeled into one last spell. A loud grunt of exertion sent the fireball on its way, but before it connected, a bolt of lightning blasted it apart. Gul'dan looked around quickly. "No!"

"You…" the intruder—Thrall—shot more lightning from Doomhammer, striking Gul'dan in small, scarring jabs. "Your lies cost me my honor. They cost thousands of innocent lives and who knows how many more! That ends today." Thrall spun Doomhammer, taking his time in approaching the awestruck Gul'dan. The hammer connected with the side of Gul'dan's face, sending him off of his feet and flying to the ground near the frozen Varian. Even then, the frozen king didn't move.

"Sh-Shar'lak! Your master calls!" In a few bounds—and with a loud roar—Shar'lak leapt out from the base of the glacier. He wrapped his lower arms around Thrall, pinning the orc's arms to his sides, and lifted him up clean off the ground. "Kill him!" Shar'lak immediately began reigning blows on Thrall's face and chest. When he grew bored of that, he started simply dragging him across the ground by his ankles, throwing him for fun once in a while. "I will enjoy going to the realms and watching you die in each and every one, weakling. Shar'lak has a greater grasp on time than I do, but I think it stands to reason that in one of them, you aren't a useless peon. I have yet to interact with any version of you that isn't a resounding disappointment, but maybe if I travel enough, I'll find one worthy of the blood my masters gave the orcs. Maybe I'll find one that isn't a disgrace. Finish him, Shar'lak. We're done with—" What they're done with, Shar'lak would never know. Gul'dan managed to look down just long enough to see the tip of Frostmourne protruding from his chest.

"Frostmourne feeds, Gul'dan," Varian spat out.

Gul'dan smiled. The last thing he'd do as his soul was absorbed into the sword was laugh one last time. Varian kicked Gul'dan's corpse off of his sword. Shar'lak charged at Varian, ready to avenge his fallen master. Varian tilted his head to the side, watching his approach. He smirked, sweeping his hand forward in a clawing motion. Shar'lak stopped in his tracks, his eyes turning into black wells as his soul escaped.

"Gul'dan's control over you is at an end. Perhaps taking his life helped me learn his ways. Regardless, as a merciful king, you may choose if your soul will move on or continue serving."

"Please, let me die," came the instant response.

Varian nodded. "I feel your power, Shar'lak. You could be great. The fire and hatred in you, in the strength of that body? Why didn't you tear me apart? Why didn't you destroy Thrall as he instructed?"

"I have lived far longer than I should have. The things done to my soul… the secrets I've held in my mind… I do not deserve a clean death for the life I've lived, but I wish my king would grant it to me."

"You lived your life in service, Shar'lak. You could have been more than a servant, but life didn't allow it. Death will give you freedom." Shar'lak's body twitched for a moment then collapsed. His soul joined his master's in Frostmourne. Varian staggered for a moment, absorbing Shar'lak's strength. He twirled Frostmourne in his hand like a child spinning a twig out of boredom.

"I could get used to this strength," he said quietly. As he turned to leave, he stopped and pointed Frostmourne at Gul'dan's corpse. It stood up immediately. With a bit of will, he forced the corpse of Gul'dan to open a portal through the nether. A great column of lightning struck down, apparently vaporizing Gul'dan's corpse.

"No, human. You will not use his cursed powers. No one will."

Varian's eyes went wide. "You!"

Suddenly, Thrall realized the chain of events that led them here. "Croc-bait?"

Varian sprinted up to Thrall, so fast that Thrall couldn't even defend himself as the gauntlet clad hand wrapped around his throat. "Do not pretend you didn't know who I was, Thrall! Am I supposed to believe the seer, the great noble savage who reached out to the Alliance in his race's time of need, had no idea that King Menethil's best friend and missing noble was fighting in the sacred orcish arena?"
"Of course I knew, Varian. But you didn't. You had no idea who you were. Would you believe an orc walking up to you and telling you 'By the way, you're the part of human royalty?'"

"Apparently."

"I was going to contact Lady Menethil and tell her what had happened with your memory."

"When? Answer quickly before you can think of yet another lie!"

Thrall nodded gently. "I swear it is the truth, Varian. The warchief's son is waging his stupid war—"

"With your help. Don't you deny it."

"I don't. But that doesn't mean now is the right time to be an orc and try to appear before the king and queen of the Alliance about their lost heir."

"You could have told anyone! I had to kill your people every day or be killed myself! I had to kill other trapped members of the Alliance, I had to kill your prisoners of war, all for what? To be forgotten because their dear brute with a conscience was feeling sad?" His fingers closed around Thrall's throat.

"Please… Varian… you know I couldn't have had… a choice…" Thrall gasped.

"Everyone has a choice! And today, I choose justice." With a great heave, Varian threw Thrall as hard as his dark-magic-enhanced strength would allow him. He hurtled through the air for what felt like a hundred feet, maybe even further. Thrall tried to claw the ground or drag his knees, but all that did was change his journey from a dart to a roll, and not soon enough. The now-evacuated-and-subsequently-flattened village was built along a cliff and Thrall couldn't slow down enough to stop his momentum. Over he went, to Varian's satisfaction. "Now, Gul'dan chose an elven boat," he said aloud, eyes now glowing blue. "Perhaps it's time I return their stolen property." His boots crushed the snow heavily with every step.

At the bottom of the cliff, though, Thrall stayed suspended above what would've been a fatal fall. The elements had blessed him again and granted him the blessing of air to catch him, just when he had made his peace with his ancestors. "Oh, thank you, ancients," he said, praising his saviors. Battered, bruised, and exhausted, Thrall closed his eyes and listened to the spirits in the wind. He knew where he would be going next.

In her heart (and in her experience), Tyrande knew that the trip took more than two hours—by quite a bit, in fact—with the arrival and departure of ships only occurring at that interval because of the sheer amount of them. VanCleef's ship was expertly built and they caught up to and passed ships going to and coming from Lordaeron. Each one meant a delay as Tyrande explained to the baffled elves aboard, who had been traveling during the attack, to stay in Lordaeron once they arrive. VanCleef didn't say a word of dissent for the delays. In fact, he barely said anything aside from coming to make sure she had what she needed and to force meals on her. "I know about loss, m'lady," he would say, "And even during that, we must take care of ourselves or we can't be expected to take care of others." She would thank him then lose herself in her own thoughts. It was in one of those moments lost in thought that she barely recognized one of VanCleef's men—an ogre, of all things—calling out "Land ho!" The familiar two-tap knock that preceded VanCleef's entry sounded out immediately after.

"I'm coming!" she called out, grabbing her bow and gear. She quickly buckled on a set of loose and light elven chain over her robes, preparing for the worst. Once on deck, it wasn't Edwin but Vanessa standing before her.

"Lady Whisperwind? Please be calm once you get up to the deck, okay? Everything will be alright." Tyrande gave as warm of a smile as she could muster and caressed the child's hair, but she wouldn't make promises she couldn't keep. And it's a good thing, too, because the second she could see the land, she let out an anguished cry of rage and sorrow. She leaned on the railing of the ship, trying to get as close to the sundered land as she could and sounding out tear filled prayers to her goddess. Vanessa wrapped her arms around Tyrande's waist in a tight hug. It stopped her shaking, but didn't consol her grief and lust for vengeance. She returned the hug, allowing herself a moment of peace—the human children were so different, so full of hope and light. Surrounded by jaded immortals had taken its toll on her over the years and between Anduin and Vanessa, maybe there'd be a chance for the next generation of humans to right the wrongs of their ancestors' wars.

Tyrande sniffed and composed herself before speaking again. "I do not want you to come ashore, young one. Please promise me you won't."

Vanessa nodded. "Dad told me to stay with Uncle Rhahk'zor. I'm not ready for orcs yet, but someday I will be." She let go of her embrace after one more squeeze and ran off to "Uncle Rhahk'zor", who was one of the biggest ogres Tyrande had ever seen, as it turns out. Edwin VanCleef came to her side.

"M'lady, I don't believe it's entirely safe to go ashore."

"Lady Menethil assured me that the area has no more ill effects. I will be fine."

Edwin let out a loud "Hah!" and pointed back at the men on the deck. "I'm not talking about for you. I'm certain this land shuddered when it heard you were coming. I'm talking about for us. Ogres, goblins, disgraced humans…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "I think between the orcs and Sentinels around here, my men wouldn't survive to see the shore. But we will wait."

Tyrande managed to chuckle about halfway through his explanation, but waved off the offer. "I'm going to be looking for my husband and that could take a while. He's always wandering the land for one reason or another. I'm sure he heard the attack and is on his way, if he hasn't been here already. Why don't you stay at one of the other cities around here? I fear Darnassus may not be the best place for you, but if you don't mind another few days of travel, you could go see one of my most trusted officers in Feralas and tell her I sent you. I figure it'll be a couple of days down there, rest for a couple more, then come back. By then, everything should be well in hand."

"I'm not so sure," he replied, rubbing his face in thought, "I'm not all that certain that I'm comfortable leaving you here by yourself after an orc attack. They're probably near here."

"She's not alone," came a voice from the ruins. A combat ready Sentinel, dressed head to toe in chainmail the colors of Darnassus and holding a formidable bow, made a subtle gesture with her free hand. Dozens more women who look just like her came out from the shadows. "And you are right. If you had not been standing with our queen, you would already look a bit like a quillboar." She stopped talking and bowed. "M'lady. We are ready to strike."

Tyrande took her leave from the ship, thanking the crew one last time, and leapt down onto the shore. "No, Elyra, you are not. The monsters that did this only did this to get our attention. I fear there is something much worse in our future. I aim to meet up with the druids and the warriors… and if I must, the Highborne, and launch a massive counterattack before they get the chance. For now, half of you can help me find Elder Stormrage and the other half can track the party that did this. There will be one left behind, someone who celebrated too hard. It has been just about a week now since the attack, so it won't be anyone important. It will be someone washed up on a beach or stuck in a tree. Capture them. Do not poke, prod, or kill them—their blood will spill in payment for the innocents they killed in time. All we need now is a direction."

"With respect, M'lady," came a response from Elyra, "We know it was the younger Hellscream that did this already and we know they're launching a campaign on Ashenvale, clearly from Orgrimmar. What more information can we learn?"

"We can find out where they got the bomb, how they got the bomb, if they have more, if they have something bigger, if they took prisoners or if they intend to, we can find out their endgame if they want the world tree… there are many things we can find out, sister, while waiting to properly counterattack them. My husband's brother used to continuously doubt my foresight and wisdom and he hasn't been regarded as anything more than a fool in many centuries. I won't suffer it from my own high guard because after several millennia of training and leading, I know what I'm doing. Are we clear, sister?"

Elyra gave a little nod and dictated the order to split up. Tyrande went north to find her husband with a dozen Sentinels, the other dozen went south, following the tracks of war beasts and battle wagons.

The hunt was far from strenuous for Tyrande. Nature and the wild hunt within it's bounty was where she felt most at home, far from the stifling city she had spent so long in. Unfortunately, her husband was much the same. However, it was not all bad news: a glowing green hawk—one of her Sentinels' messengers—had flown by a few hours prior, so they had actually managed to find a prisoner. She couldn't believe the luck. Her response was an indication that they were to keep moving, but they'd meet up along the shore that night. Well, the sun was dipping down along the horizon, creating a beautiful sunset, which means that day's search was over. "We'll camp here, sisters. Bring in the game, start a fire. First sleeping shift, go." Four Sentinels sought refuge under a large tree and laid right down to rest.

"M'lady—"

"Have you come to doubt me again, sister?" Tyrande couldn't stop herself from snapping at Elyra. She was still relatively young for a Kaldorei and her promotion to Tyrande's second in command to the Sentinels was not a particularly welcomed one, but Tyrande recognized that though the human empire was trying to usher in peace and learning, her side of the world was falling to a bloodthirsty band of brutal orcs. Elyra's bloodlust and sense of vengeance could help her see the time to strike.

"Doubt? Never. I am simply here as you appointed me to do and offer a second opinion."

Tyrande nodded. "And that is?"

"Every minute we spend wasting time out here is another minute they're grouping up for the next assault. It would be easier and faster to just let us go in under the cover of night and end this."
"Ah. I see. So you see yourselves infiltrating either Draka'mar or a very well protected camp that houses either the general or warchief of the Horde and killing them, and that will somehow end this conflict instead of igniting a bloodlust into the hearts and feeble minds of every single orc, troll, and tauren under their banner?"

"So we kill them, too. Everyone in that camp."

"Or city?"

"Or city! They all deserve to pay for what's been wrought on us for these last years! The only way to cleanse a corrupted grove is to burn it down to the roots, you taught me that, Tyrande."

Tyrande pursed her lips in a brief burst of anger, but ended up calming down almost instantly. "This isn't a matter of wiping one or the other out. The Kaldorei will never die. There are too many of us, we are too good, we are everywhere, and frankly, I won't allow it. The idea is to hold on to ourselves. Orcs would wipe us out to the last infant. We will not. We will kill or capture the ones responsible, but they aren't all guilty."

"But they will be!" Elyra was adamant. "They are a race—pardon, a group of races—that exist only to kill, pillage, and destroy."

"They are not, sister. There have been great troll medicine men, great tauren spiritualists, and even some fantastic orc brewers. I'll grant you that brewing isn't the highest goal someone can achieve, but they didn't have to go to war for some ale."

Elyra's jaw fell so wide open that it could be seen under her purple chain mask. "Are you defending them? Is there such a crime as treason when the high priestess commits it?"

"I will always defend the innocent lives, Elyra, no matter what race they are. As my left hand, you should too."

"I am only your left hand because that is the one that steadies your bow," she spat back. "The Horde are our enemies and they should be treated like our enemies. I would prefer not to kill their children, but when I look at the rubble of a city full of families and know that none made it out? I will not lose sleep if one of my arrows misses its mark."

"I have known the Galeclaw family for many generations. Your mother was one of the first accepted druids of the claw that wasn't a man. Her husband, your father, was a druid. Their parents were a druid and a Sentinel, their parents were a druid and a Sentinel. Your brothers and sisters? Druids. I knew to take special care of you when you wanted to go the route of the bow rather than the claw. I know you better than this. You are angry."

"I am!"
"You want vengeance."

"I do!"

"You want to see the orcs dead."
"I will!"

"Then you will do it as a Kaldorei—as a Galeclaw. You will do it with the discipline and the calm that has carried us on as long as the world has existed. The orcs claim this continent, but our people were alive when the eldest of the elder orcs were just learning how to walk. You personally will still be alive when orcs kill themselves off of the face of this planet. You, however, will not do it. You will find the parties responsible and dole out justice. And when the time comes, I trust no other hand as much as I trust yours to let the arrows loose."

Elyra's posture relaxed. They really were a good balance to each other. "Then we wait, but I would still advise not to—" her words trailed off as a peculiar sound pierced through the dusk. An elven boat that had been fitted with bastardized icebreakers was going through the water incredibly quickly, leaving a trail of instantly forming and breaking ice in its wake. The cracking sounded like a landslide. "Er, I would advise not to… wait. That isn't right, is it?"

Tyrande shook her head. She walked towards the shore and called out "Identify yourself!" The boat kept going, headed towards Darnassus. Tyrande called out again, louder. "Identify your—"

"Silence, Tyrande! After all these years, you still cannot manage to learn when to hold your tongue. Look," the direct, weathered voice of Malfurion Stormrage cut her off. He pointed at the helm, where it looked like a being of pure shadow stood at the wheel. "You do not want a being like that to pay attention to."

"Still trying to protect me?"

"Someone has to. You are brash, reckless, and you do not listen to reason."

"And you are entirely incapable of—"

"Silence! I'm dealing with matters far greater than a scouting trek to find some mythical orc or some inconsequential—" his sentence was cut off with a loud smack as a fist connected with his lips.

"You will show my wife more respect, brother," came the nasal voice of Illidan Stormrage. "Greetings, my love," he said, reaching out for Tyrande's hands. He took them and kissed the knuckles of both hands. "The Kaldorei seek their priestess. The orcs seek the Sentinels."

"And I seek you, my love. We mean to mount an offensive. Are your trainees ready?"

He shook his head. "They are not prepared."

"Nonsense. They have the greatest fighter the Kaldorei have ever produced at their helm."

Illidan snorted. "I can assemble them when they are done with their training."

"This is significantly more important than training, my love."

"I agree," he affirmed, "But this is their training. They are trying to track me. Blindfolded."

"That's not fair! You have your—"

"As much as I hate to interrupt this meeting of the minds," Malfurion growled, "an unidentified ship just went faster than any other vessel I've seen towards the World Tree."

"Yes, I am aware," said Tyrande, calmly, "but I can't do anything about that from here. I can't even get a message to them from here and we have no ship. I'm focusing on the problem we can address which is the Horde apparently trying to destroy our lands. I'm obviously extremely concerned about an outsider approaching the World Tree, but I can't fly, so I can't get there."

"Yes, brother," Illidan sneered, "You are the only one here who can actually fly, so how about you go give our visitor a warm welcome?"

"I have lived too long to suffer fools, especially ones I'm related to. Report to me in the morning." He shifted into a large bird and began to take flight.

"No, Malfurion. You report to me. Remember your place." Tyrande's gaze was icy cold—it was clear she had been on the other side of that conversation before. If a bird could glower, Malfurion would have before he took off.

"What's with the big bird?" A new voice asked.

Illidan readied his blades. "Who goes—"

"No, my love. He is a friend. I thought you were staying on the boat, Edwin?"

VanCleef took a tentative step back since the shirtless guy etched with weird body art was holding not one but two weapons larger than any human. "Uh, yeah, things were getting a bit dull and a bunch of Sentinels just walked by with some orc, so I thought I'd race them here. Did I hear something about there being a race of warriors? All we ever hear about are Sentinels and druids."

Illidan sheathed his weapons across his back, smirking. "Then we are doing our jobs well. As it has been for many centuries—women who wish to fight join the Sentinels, men join the Unseen, and anyone gifted with magic can receive the training they choose. I am Illidan Stormrage, husband of Tyrande Whisperwind. You must be the human who brought our priestess back to us."

VanCleef's eyes went wide. "I.. I am, but did you say you're Illidan Stormrage?" Illidan nodded. "Wow. Wow wow wow. The whole reason I started training with two swords was because of the stories we'd hear out on the sea about you. I mean, obviously a sword can't really compare to the warglaives you hold, but we're humans—we copy what we can and steal the rest. I'm sorry. Is this weird?"
Illidan was having a hard time containing a grin at having a fan. "A little, yes, but not bad weird. I wasn't aware humans knew about me."

Tyrande laughed. "Not reputable ones, my love. He just said 'at sea'. He's a pirate."

Illidan's beaming grin faded. "Oh. Still, perhaps when this all gets resolved, you can join in with the Unseen and be properly trained."

"It would be an honor! But I don't know what's left for me to learn." VanCleef drew his weapons and slashed them around a moment. "Between my father and a life of… well, building things then becoming a bit of a pirate, I'm pretty skilled."

Illidan also drew his. "Perhaps, but your entire family's bloodline is like a rather long afternoon for the Kaldorei." He also started showing the motions of battle. "And I bet you've never felt a weapon like this."

Tyrande's boredom quickly overtook her amusement. "Boys, you can measure your weapons later. Put them away." They did so, looking like six year olds being scolded for not putting away their toys. She could hear an a victory chant being raised by many of her Sentinels as, just down the road, they returned with an orc in hand. He was clearly a youth. This was probably his first raid—of course, Tyrande could only tell because instead of the scarred, battle hardened face she usually saw, this young male looked scared. The chanting stopped just as everyone was in earshot. "Bring him forward. VanCleef, bring a goblin."

"Odds are he's lurking in the bushes, m'lady, as I instructed him to do." On cue, the same goblin who translated the dying troll's words emerged from the bushes.

"Hey, I don't see too many elven broads back home. I was startin' to like them bushes."

Tyrande frowned. "Charming."

VanCleef cleared his throat. "Just a goblin, m'lady."

"Goblin or not, you will treat everyone here with respect. Now, just like before, I wish to talk to this orc. Interpret what we say. Ask him if he is injured."

The goblin did so, and the orc replied, sort of. He cried. "Well, he's scared. I can tell ya that much."

Tyrande sighed. "Give him a minute, then ask him again if he's injured or if he needs food or water."

It was a few minutes before the sobs stopped, but the goblin dutifully asked the questions and got a very long response. "He wants water. He ain't injured. Apparently after the bomb went off, they basically started partyin' back to Durotar, but he ain't never had no alcohol before and he passed out on a beach. They left him behind and he's been livin' off of grubs and berries since he's apparently a farmer and ain't actually no soldier." He looked back at Tyrande, already looking exasperated. "Hey, I gotta tell ya, if he's gonna be this wordy every time, I don't wanna talk to him no more."

One of the Sentinels gently held a flask of water up to the orc's mouth, who drank it greedily. "You will talk to him or VanCleef will replace you with a sock puppet made from the foot of an ogre which would still be cleaner than you," came Tyrande's irritated reply. "Ask him where they are. No, ask him where they got the weapon."

She didn't need an interpreter for the response. "Windrunner."

Illidan's lip curled. "I know that name. She fought in Northrend and aided us during the demonic invasion. Why would she betray us? It would make literally no sense at all for the Quel'dorei or even their fel corrupted brethren to join the Horde."

Tyrande kept her composure. "Yes, my love, she is also in talks to align herself with the Alliance. I'm unsure what angle she would have to do this, but it adds up…" She trailed off for a moment. "Ask him where his troops are."

"Hey, I don't mean to disrespect ya again, but why would he know? He was left for drunk on a beach."

"Ask. Him."

He did as he was told after a little squeak. "They were marchin' on Ashenvale next."

The Sentinels all grabbed their gear. "Then we move once the Unseen arrive," Tyrande announced.

"With respect, Lady Whisperwind, we have been here since the orc got here."

Tyrande turned, smiling. "I see you have lived up to your name." She gave a look of disbelief once she finished turning—there were at least fifty men, some in armor, some in virtually nothing, but all blindfolded and holding warglaives. "Er, your names. Wow, you said they weren't ready, Illidan?"

Illidan clicked his tongue. "They are ready to slay orcs, yes, but they require more training to be up to our standards." He bowed to his recruits. "Unseen! How do we move?"

"As shadows!" They replied in unison.

"How do we fight?"

"As one!"

"And how do greet our enemies?"

"As death!"

Illidan saluted, starting to run. "We march!" But all that energy came to an abrupt halt. A noise on the horizon sounded like an otherworldly screech of pain. Everyone in the hunting party dropped to their knees or to the ground, covering their ears. Tyrande dared to open her eyes and look to the horizon. There, the world tree seemed to twist and contort as it turned icy white. The water between the World Tree and the shore before them immediately glaciated. Terror didn't begin to describe what they were all feeling, but the leaders knew what to do: Illidan and Tyrande took those willing and ran across the ice; VanCleef ran back to his ship, shouting his daughter's name.

For the second time in as many weeks, bells tolled all across Lordaeron. They were under attack once again. Arthas had prided himself in ushering in an era of peace for humankind, and yet it seemed as if the world around him just wouldn't let it be. He grabbed his sword and ran towards the gates, expecting to see the lines of his guards assembling. Yet he saw something far different: one orc, Draka'mar's high seer. He walked through the streets, being spat on, having rotten food thrown at him (if nothing worse), but holding his head high. His eyes locked with Arthas. "I seek a few moments of your time, your highness. And hopefully a healer." Now that Thrall was close, Arthas could see he was covered in bruises and scrapes.

Arthas hesitated a moment, but nodded. "This man is to be treated as a guest until he leaves these gates. Medic to the throne room, royal guard at the ready." There was a bit of an outcry of dissent from the citizens. Arthas, however, was not in the mood. "Silence! I haven't led you astray yet, I won't lead you astray in the next ten minutes." There were days his bitterness and youth shone through. He walked alongside Thrall to make sure he got through safely. "This is quite the stunt. How did you know we wouldn't kill you?"
"Jaina. I know Jaina. She wouldn't marry a man who would act so rashly. You know who I am and who I work for. I wouldn't be here unless things were truly dire for us both."

Arthas raised a hand to cut him off. "Say no more until we're away from the citizens. I will tell them on their terms."
"Or on yours?"

"I do not withhold from my people, orc, I simply wish time to assess if what you're going to tell me is valid or not." They walked in silence to the throne room, where a medic was waiting. "Seal the doors and man them. Nurse, you aren't allowed to repeat a word this orc says, are we understood?" She nodded her agreement and got to work. "You have until you're out of bruises to say what you're going to say."

"Good, then I should have a few hours." He looked to see if Arthas found his joke amusing. He didn't. "I found someone you've been looking for a few months ago. No, I didn't tell you and yes, I should have."
"And are you going to make me guess who that is?"
"Varian Wrynn."

"Stop patching him up. You're leaving." He dragged Thrall up by his shoulder, which made him loudly fuss in pain. Arthas didn't care.

"I'm telling you the truth! He's been arena fighting under the name 'Croc-bait'."

Arthas stopped moving him. "Word of that gladiator got back to us in the more shady corners of the kingdom. A human who could improvise weapons from just about anything and use them with perfect lethality, so you—the orcs—kept him away from true arms. You're saying that is Varian, my best friend, and you knew?"

"I'm not proud of it, but with him back in this kingdom, you would've wanted war."

"You're exactly right I would have! Especially now, knowing that you'd been keeping him from us!"

Thrall struggled free of his grip. "Stop talking and listen! He's alive and for a short while, he had no memory. But he has more than that now. He has a weapon, a cursed one. He killed… well, that doesn't matter since he was already dead, but he's back and he's strong and he is going to the Kaldorei."

Fear set in to Arthas' eyes. "A cursed weapon? S-speak its name, orc!"

"Frostmourne."
"No! No, no no… this can't… I can't…" the King of Lordaeron fell to his knees. "That was meant to be my curse. I had prayed the world would forget that cave and that sword."

"They had until just now, your highness. We have to move. If he can do what I saw him do to that orc and that abomination on such a large scale as the World Tree, this world is doomed."

Arthas composed himself in silence for a moment, pulling himself up. "The issue I'm having currently, orc, is that I believe you. Our port was destroyed in an attack by your troops."

Thrall considered this a moment, waving off more medical help. "If you still have that ship that sails to the academy in Theramore, I can arrange safe transport across the Barrens."

"We don't need a ship. Jaina attuned several of her first class to be able to open portals back as needed. The ship was discontinued after Jaina performed her service for your orcs." He managed to mix a blend of pride and disapproval into his words and face. "But after we land, what happens next? In this scenario, orcs would see hundreds of humans, dwarves, and such with one orc and they wouldn't call you a traitor and skin you in front of us?"

Thrall chuckled, wincing and holding his ribs in trade for that moment of mirth. "I didn't say what I could get transport with, Arthas. I may be an orc, but I am a seer. I do not command the elements, but I do ask their aid. If Varian is doing what I assume he is doing, they will have no issue assisting me."

"I will get my men assembled as fast as I can."

Theramore was bustling as it always was. After the end of the third war, it's leader, Jaina then-Proudmoore, returned the militia men and soldiers to Lordaeron and opened an academy for anyone who wished to learn the aspects magic—fire, frost, arcane, and even necromancy being taught in a secure environment. Traders from across the world brought reagents and untold amounts of water for the mages who couldn't quite conjure the right food. Needless to say, the majority of the Lordaeronian army and Draka'mar's high seer strolling through town was a bit of an odd sight in contrast. The younger ones asked Thrall for help in managing to chuck lightning instead of fire or ice, but the best he could do is explain that not many had that skill. "When you're done addressing your fans, would you kindly lead us to this transport of yours?"

"I am," Thrall assured Arthas.

"These are the docks. Alliance controlled docks. If you hired a goblin barge, I could've saved you the time and ordered proper human steel."

"If you're quite finished, your majesty, I am going to contact our ride." Thrall waded out into the water until he was waist deep. There, he raised his hammer and called out. "Spirits of the water, sea, and tides! I am but your humble servant and I request your aid! A great atrocity shall be committed to this world unless my companions and I are allowed to stop it!"

A vague outline of a face appeared in the water before them. "It has been done, servant. But worse can happen without your aid. Come forth, children of the land. Walk upon my kingdom." Though Thrall assumed he was speaking in a whisper, the Alliance had started moving forward without him relaying the message. "Steady your nerves and your feet. And the next time you need aid, consider calling to the spirits of the land. I have better things to do than babysit trees and dirt. Get on your ship."

Arthas commandeered the last ship at the docks and led everyone aboard. "What do you suppose he meant by all that?" He found out quickly: the water underneath them raged into a furious riptide. The boat took off through the water with a loud pop. Somewhere behind them, someone in the stunned crowd asked if that meant that Jaina was the new ruler since they were all surely dead.

Tyrande and Illidan had been running for what seemed weeks, but it had only been a few hours. The wilds around them were as familiar as the inside of their own homes, and unfortunately even with all the shortcuts, it wasn't in time to save Astranaar from a full scale attack. Tyrande screamed out a furious cry at the bodies and ruins, but most importantly, it got the attention of the orcish army. They all turned and readied their weapons, but in the middle of them, Grommash Hellscream stood with his son. "Strike them down!" came the order from Garrosh.

"No! They are unarmed. They do not come here for war."

"Neither did their army. They only came for conquest," Garrosh sneered.

"Remember your place, child. I am the warchief. Crushing your enemies is the way of the Horde. Humiliating them is the way of a spiteful brat."

The crew of elves continued in formation to the command hut. "Warchief Hellscream," Tyrande said with a bow.

Grom snorted. "Kor'kron, assemble at their backs. One move and you kill them all."

"No!" shrieked Tyrande a bit too desperately. She calmed herself before speaking again. "First, my compliments on your common tongue. Many orcs cannot grasp it. More urgently, we seek to end this violence."

Garrosh let out a holler. "Ha! They seek to surrender so soon. Lok'tar ogar! The Horde rises!" A loud cheer echoed out from outside the hut.

"Do not misunderstand our intent," Tyrande said cautiously, "We are not here to surrender. We seek to end this violence. Something greater than your greed or our homes is happening right now and I fear we are the only elves left on the planet."

"Wrong," said Garrosh through a sadistic grin, "After you come the pale ones. Then there will be no more."

Grom backhanded Garrosh to silence him from saying anything more. "Forgive my son, priestess. He was not raised in a world where he could face extinction. I was. Our campaign was never about wiping you out, it was about reclaiming. Your men and women fought with honor to their deaths. We have never faced an army that did not retreat. Their ancestors should be proud. That said, I fail to see the difference between what you ask and surrender."

Tyrande continued the façade, but kept stealing a glance behind her now and then. "We are not surrendering because you have not properly faced our army. However, we are willing to help you in future hostilities if you spare us now."

Grom perked a brow. "Your words are beyond confusing, woman."

"She mewls out words and assurances out of the terror the Horde has placed in her and her pathetic people," Garrosh taunted.

Illidan poked Tyrande. "My love, we are running out of time. We need to move," he said with a twinge of panic in his voice. The tree line jostled across the entire horizon.

Garrosh, however, wouldn't be stopped. "The world is a sick and cruel place, father. All life is is a series of making the least bad decision. They face extinction? They made the choice to keep orcs from orcish land. Now they humble themselves when there is but one prize left to take." There was a commotion from the Horde outside. "Yes, brothers! You knew it would end with the razing of every single one of their homes until those who remain defiant are obliterated." The commotion got louder. Even a few of the elves took off now—most, actually, aside from Illidan and Tyrande. "What," he continued as he approached Tyrande, "Does the truth startle your people?"

Tyrande's diplomacy was over. She took a hold of Garrosh's head and face, pulling him behind her. "Look over there, you idiot!" She and Illidan took off, but her message got through: Garrosh saw a massive, shambling horde of pale, rotting elves that were letting loose arrow after arrow upon them. The arrows flew in a curious curving pattern, leaving devastating wounds in those they connected with. As Garrosh moved out to his soldiers that still stood their ground, he recognized them as broken rib bones. These rotting archers were shooting their own razor sharp bones at them. Behind them, elves that were emitting a constant cloud of plague infused the archers, growing back the bones as quickly as they were losing them.

This was some ridiculous dream. "Normally those who run from battle are disgraced," announced Garrosh, "but this time… do what you feel is right, my brothers! This is not the death any of you have earned!" He personally began his retreat. Few, if any, stood their ground. But if bones weren't enough, ice started erupting from the ground, freezing the slower ones in place. Garrosh ran and evaded as he could, but eventually, the ice found him too. But not one of the cursed arrows found him. Something far worse did: a shadowy tendril wrapped around his throat and began to squeeze. The elves stopped around him, their eyes glowing a dull, lifeless blue. The smell of rotting flesh was overwhelming. The sights and smells were bad enough, but then the sound of plated boots crunching over freezing ground assaulted him next.

For the first time in his young life, Garrosh Hellscream was afraid.

"Do you know me, orc?" came a throaty growl.

"I… I have no idea who you are."

"You will."

Garrosh spat at his feet. It froze as it hit the ground. "You think a name matters? Do you think anything a human does to this world will ever matter? History is forged in orcish iron, stained by the blood of humans."

Varian let out an exasperated sigh. "You're the wrong one. Where's the real orc leader? Where's the older one?"

A hail of arrows fell upon the undead archers. Some fell to the ground, unlife extinguished from their eyes. Others simply broke bones off and prepared to counterfire. The plagued druids behind them raised the fallen ones faster than the arrows could down them, but the Unseen proved their training had paid off as they snuck behind enemy lines and cleaved them asunder. They made dents before some of the Unseen got cut down themselves. At their center, Illidan darted between archers faster than any of the rest could muster. At his back, Tyrande fired ethereal arrow after arrow at the undead archers. Though many of the Unseen's targets got back up, the lunar arrows of Tyrande burned the archers to dust. At least for now, the attack would be hindered. An orcish war cry pierced through the freezing over forest as they charged back into battle. Many of the undead archers scored killing shots, but once orcish muscle and steel closed the distance, the rotting bodies could hardly stay intact let alone upright once faced with direct damage.

"You called for me, human?" That was all the warning Varian got before Grom charged forward, swinging Gorehowl as hard as he could. The Plate of the Damned scratched and dented, but didn't break. Varian recoiled, holding his chest where the pressure of the weapon started to grow. The binds around Garrosh let loose. He grabbed the weapons of a fallen orc and joined the attack on Varian, denting his armor further. Only when they aimed for his exposed face did he bother moving or resisting.

"Fight! Die with honor, human scum!" Garrosh growled in between hits.

Varian turned, studying him. "You are half right." He swung a gauntleted fist at Garrosh, connecting with his chest and launching him back. He landed in a crumbled heap amongst the rest of the dead. Grom let out a grief filled battle cry and attacked anew, swinging constantly and wildly. The confidence slowly started to fade from Varian as he concentrated on blocking and avoiding the attacks. His strategy eventually started to pay off—the old orc started to grow tired long before the armor would. One opening was all Varian needed to reach out and clasp his fingers around Grom's throat. Around him, the Unseen, orcs, and Sentinels began to retreat as the fallen among them started to rise. "Each one of you that falls strengthens my army. Not just as a body, but their experience, their mind, their instincts. We take it all. I have the soulstealing power of a necromancer and the raw strength of his greatest creation in me. I wonder, warchief, what I have to learn from you." A pale blue light began to emanate from Grom's eyes as Varian prepared Frostmourne.

However, the lesson was on hold. Another war horn sounded, but this one had the vague sound of a lion's roar behind it. Grom's body was suddenly surrounded by a thin layer of earthen power, ceasing any of Varian's offense against him. He fell to the ground, catching his breath. "Back again, Thrall? I will make sure you're dead this time."

"Indeed, Varian. And I brought the true king." The soldiers and knights of Lordaeron spread out, storming the front of undead elves. At their front was Thrall and Arthas. They had come ready to fight, but Arthas already dropped his hammer, mouth gaping open.

"There is only one king here, orc," Varian said, eyes trained on Arthas. He clenched his left hand into a fist for a moment then pointed at Thrall. A huge ball of ice shot out from Varian's gauntlet. Thrall gathered his energy for a moment and hurled molten lava at the ball. They collided in midair, leaving nothing but steam where they were.

Thrall leaned towards Arthas. "He's… very strong."

"That appears to be an understatement. Go to Lady Whisperwind and help her. I will speak with him."

"Your majesty—"

"What do you care? You stole one king, the fate of another shouldn't matter to you. Go." Arthas' words were as cold as the frost-covered forest around them, but Thrall took his leave. Arthas' steps were heavy and slow, as if he was trying to control a dream that was spiraling out of control. "Good to see you, brother."

Varian let out a "Mmm", not really believing him. "Hello, old friend. Did you come to end this war?"

"We aren't at war, Varian. We're just two old friends talking. It is truly good to see you, but you aren't well. You should come back to Lordaeron. We can help you."

"Return to Lordaeron?" Varian said, laughing. "I will someday. I will conquer it with the greatest army humans have ever seen. I will see it burn, and from the ruins I will build my true kingdom. Then I will find you, as you failed to find me, and I will not kill you. I will keep you alive to see what your failure has wrought."

Arthas shook his head, though his hands shook as well. "I… I tried, old friend. We looked so hard for so long. But we—"

"Stopped. You stopped, Arthas." Anger began to build in Varian's voice. "Do you know what I would have done if you would have gone missing? I would have spent all day, every day, with every resource I had, every horse, every conscript, every mage, every single member of the kingdom, and I would have found you. I would have brought you home and I would have never given up."

Varian's speed was more startling than the change in the rest of him. Even in the bulky armor, his walking pace was faster than most of the soldiers were running. Arthas tried to keep his voice steady. "I always said you would be a better king than I would, Varian. I always envied your strength and your dedication."

"And now I get to prove it for the whole world to see. I'll start by bringing Lordaeron to its knees." He held out his hand. Pressure crushed down on Arthas, driving him down to the ground. Darkness washed over the king. He looked up at Varian, who almost looked distant and sad even as life began to fade away in Arthas' eyes.

"Long live the king, old friend."

A long, loud warcry echoed out from behind Varian. He paid no attention to it—orcs and their noises, after all. Unfortunately, he should have. Gorehowl, being swung with all the might and rage of the warchief Grommash Hellscream, cut down and through his extended arm at the elbow. The severed limb fell uselessly to the ground. Arthas blinked, gasping for air. In that moment he looked up, he saw a look of utter rage on Varian's face as he drove Frostmourne into Grom's heart. He could hear Lady Whisperwind cry out "No!", but his world went dark again. Around him, things quickly changed in favor of the living.

Tyrande raised her hands to the sky. "Goddess! Bring peace to your forgotten children!" The forest lit up and bright globes of light started dropping from the sky, searing them. Several burned into ash, but they bid a hasty retreat. Varian looked over to Tyrande, but something else had his attention. He beckoned one of the druids of the plague over and with a wave of the druid's hand, a forearm, wrist, and hand grew in its place. "We must mend the sick and protect the land, my king. It is a pleasure to serve you." A dark blue Malfurion Stormrage was by his side, eyes glazed over and a naïve smile on his lips. "I shall return to the trainees at once!" His form shifted into that of an overly large carrion bird and he took off. Varian flexed the new hand and reached down for the weapon that had stolen his hand from him. Gorehowl was heavier than he thought, but not unwieldy. Frostmourne, as per the norm, protested and shot icy beams at the intruder in its owner's other hand. Varian had to struggle to keep Gorehowl steady, but after a long "fight", Gorehowl remained intact, a thick lair of pure white ice on its hilt and icicles hanging off of its blade. He gave it a few spins alongside Frostmourne. This would do just fine.

"I'll be waiting for you," he said, looking over at Tyrande. He joined his rotting troops and disappeared into darkness. Illidan joined Tyrande at the fallen Lordaeronian king's side. Thrall wasn't far behind. "Scour the bodies. Find the living and burn the dead," came Tyrande's order. They all stood over the body of Grom Hellscream. A look of peace—the first time Tyrande had ever seen it on the orc—was permanently etched on his face. "I'm grateful Garrosh wasn't alive to see that. Can you imagine?"

Illidan shook his head. "Garrosh's body isn't far from here. We should reunite father and son. Maybe his ancestors will finally grant him peace."

Tyrande gave him a look of kind consideration. "Take me to him. Maybe his wounds weren't fatal."

Illidan immediately started leading the way, but Thrall caught up to them, voicing his dissent. "I'm not sure if you want to lend him your aid. With him dead, there is a real chance for the war against each other to be over."

"That would also make you warchief. Don't play games with me, orc."

A low growl escaped Thrall's throat. "I see. So I wandered into Lordaeron, a lone orc amongst humans… I am a traitor to my people for aiding you… but you assume this is a power play? All of this?"

Illidan let out a guffaw. "Always the martyr, always the innocent one. The self-sacrificing savage with a hint of nobility. How did you know to go alert Lordaeron, hm? Did you see Varian before this?"

"Yes," Thrall replied through grit teeth.

"Do you know how the lost lord of Lordaeron became this way?"

"Yes," he replied again, quieter than before.

"Was it you?"
Thrall pressed his chest against Illidan. "I do not take kindly to accusations, boy."

"I do not take kindly to my home and my people being killed, enslaved, or worse!" He shoved Thrall back. "Do your worst, shaman. Your little magic tricks won't save you from a true fighter." Illidan's posture changed as a realization dawned on him. "Wait. We saw him, didn't we? The elven ship that went past, freezing the tide!" In a fluid motion, Illidan drew his glaives and angled the pointed ends on either side of Thrall's neck. "It was you, wasn't it? The orcs destroy our only port city, our only lines of communication with Lordaeron severed in the process, and their lost king returns on an elven ship? Who else could have had a chance to steal one but an orc?"
Thrall bared his teeth. "It wasn't me. It was… it was Garrosh!"

"Liar…" came a breathless voice, followed by a series of coughs. Garrosh looked up at them, blood on his lips and inside his mouth. "The Kor'kron are not loyal to a shaman, coward. They told me everything about your little plan to steal a ship before we destroyed their pathetic city." A laugh came before the next choking spree. "The noble Thrall. The peacemongering traitor. You did more to destroy the elves in one theft than I could have done with a thousand campaigns. Well done, shaman. Well done."

Thrall's mouth seemed to forget how to close. He couldn't dare move, not with Illidan's trembling blades on either side of him. "Give the word, my love. Please… give the word."

Tears dropped silently from Tyrande's eyes as she looked down at Thrall in disgust. "He deserves to live in the world he created. Death would be too easy. The orcs will not want him for helping the humans. We do not want him for what he did to us. Let him live alone with his choices." Illidan's blades cut lightly into the sides of Thrall's neck. With a grunt of frustration, Illidan put his weapons away.

"Leave," came Illidan's command. Thrall stammered out an apology, but it fell on deaf (pointy) ears. Tyrande and Illidan turned their attention to Garrosh, who was now splayed out on his back, coughing gently.

"Spare me your platitudes, woman. Your goddess does not watch over me nor my fallen brothers."

Tyrande's voice was a mix of pleading and anger. "If you would shut up and pay attention for one minute, you'd realize there are things bigger than your pride and your precious conquest at stake! That man came to take over this world. What will be left for your orcs to steal—or reclaim, as you prefer—if he succeeds?"

"And you propose working together? You must be desperate."

"Horribly. We aren't going to be able to save the world while fighting each other. I can mend your wounds, but I will sit here and watch your body turn cold if you don't agree to my terms."

Garrosh thought it over, knowing his time was limited. "I will hear them before I consider them against my death."

"The Unseen will watch over Draka'mar while our troops assemble to make sure you don't try anything."

"The who?"

Illidan grinned. "Exactly. Don't worry about it."

Tyrande continued. "Further, the Kor'kron will guard what few cities we have left and help rebuild Astranaar. The Sentinels must return to Feathermoon and rebuild. The archers of your army may be allowed to join them to make sure they are up to our standards."

"Your standards? You're losing. Remarkably."

"You are employing technology we assumed our allies had and attacking us at our weakest. Good for winning a war, but not particularly honorable combat. Tell me, Garrosh, how many of your men have you lost to the handful of Sentinels we've had on duty?"
Garrosh snorted. "Continue your terms."

"Should we succeed, there will be no hostilities between your army and ours until we are rebuilt—both in city and population."

"You wish for me to sit back as you steal from our territory for countless generations? Imposs—"

"Shut up! There will be no hostilities, but there will be a trade agreement. Our lumber for your iron. Numbers can be adjusted as needed, but right now, young Hellscream, I'd say you have about a minute to decide if you'd rather be dead or warchief."

Garrosh was silent for half of that minute. "One more term."

"No promises."

"When Varian dies, I reclaim my birthright. Gorehowl returns to the Hellscream name."

She placed her hands on his chest where she could feel the destroyed bones and tissue. Her fingers started to glow with a healing energy. "Done."

Part 4: Kingdom Fall

Sylvanas loosed three arrows at the same time, each one hitting the heart of a different Wretched elf. The information the dwarven scout party had brought back was good, if terrifying—a large group of Wretched had assembled at the southern end of Quel'thalas. Sylvanas took a few groups of humans and her own archers, as well as her shadow named Valeera, and moved out immediately. They'd experienced some losses, but once Sylvanas arrived, bow in hand, the tides of battle changed. Without Bolvar there to make his men pay attention, many were lost in awe at her speed and accuracy, and she knew it, even calling out shots before she made them. Though in the end about thirty humans, five dwarves, and two elves died, with a loud shout of "Neck, then open mouth", Sylvanas shot two arrows and made true to her word and dispatched the last Wretched to a loud cheer from the soldiers of Lordaeron. Maybe these humans weren't so bad and she could have a private group of celebrators for everything she did. "Back to Silvermoon, everyone. Drinks are on me." She smirked over at them for the biggest cheers yet. That smile faded quickly as she looked over at Valeera. "No fel blood on you anywhere that I can see. Did you think this battle was a play and we were all performers?"

Valeera perked a brow, but her tone remained monotonous. "Pointless."

"What was? You being here?'

Valeera shrugged.

Sylvanas had been with this woman for just about two months now and no one had ever irritated her as much. "You're so busy watching me that you seem to have forgotten that you are a fighter. Can you do something useful?"
"Always."

"I disagree, but nonetheless, can you tell me where my sister is? Now that would be useful. She hasn't been here since you started lurking around. Maybe you just unnerve her like you do to me." Sylvanas looked startled at her own words, but then they couldn't stop. "You look like us, you fight like us, you live like us, but you're broken. I've tried to help you, I've sent you to our healers. I've been kind to you and I've been hateful to you and still you just stare and say your single words. What's wrong with you?"

"Orders."

"Your orders are to be a fragmented freak?"

Valeera shrugged again. "Perception."

Sylvanas simply sighed. "Let's just go back." They started walking past the army, who cast them wary glares, having heard Sylvanas' outburst. She kept her head held high, but just like everyone else around her, she staggered back when a huge green cloud erupted from Silvermoon City. "G-g-go!"

They arrived within the hour, but the battle was over. Much of the human army lay dead in the streets, though they were hard to identify as many had been reduced to shriveled husks. Quel'dorei lay among them as well in the same state. They kept running through the streets looking for any sign of life, and finally, they found a family hiding behind a smithing forge. Sylvanas ran up to them. "The city gates are safe, you can get out through there." They all started to run past her. "Wait! What happened?"
The children, a boy and a girl, simply whimpered. Their father ushered them away while the mother shuddered. "Y-your sister…"

Sylvanas' voice became desperate. "Where? Where is she?"

"The throne room. They were all going that way." Sylvanas didn't bother thanking her before running off. Bolvar, Valeera, and their remaining troops followed as best as they could. None of the streets were any better than the first, but as they neared the throne room, at least there were an equal amount of fallen Wretched on the ground. Some were charred, frozen, or cleaved, but the fact is that the elves of Silvermoon didn't go down without a fight. Or… they didn't at all. The doors to the throne room opened. Spellbreakers, healers, archers, and finally Alleria urged them all to rush in. Sylvanas rushed forward and embraced her sister.

"I haven't seen you in so long! I was so worried they had taken you, or worse!" Sylvanas cried out, though she was mere inches from her sister's ear.

Alleria smiled back at her warmly. "It is wonderful to see you as well, sister. Though I wish it was under better circumstances."

This got Sylvanas back business. "What's the situation? Is there anything to know that can't be explained by looking at the streets?"

Alleria shook her head, pursing her lips. "We got quite a few people out, but most of the city is lost."

"Well, great," Sylvanas said with a twinge of hope, "Where did you evacuate them?"

"Lordaeron was the only place our magisters were attuned to, so that's where they are."
"Okay, so, let's get going. Get the one of the magisters up here and—"
Alleria shook her head. "We sent the last one through. We're the final guard."

Sylvanas' joy at seeing her sister evaporated. "You don't have the power… you don't have the right to make that call!"
"Oh, here we go again. I don't have the power? We have the same rank, the same power! You were busy shooting people with your humans—"

"You still call them people? Did you not see what they did to the innocent men, women, and children in this city?"

"They were desperate, Sylvanas! People like you are so busy killing them without trying to give them help or a cure or anything other than death that they didn't see a choice! You did the same thing with the orcs!"
The eyes of the humans trained on Sylvanas. "The orcs have nothing to do with this! Our city is in ruins, the streets are drowning in the blood of our people, and yet you still defend the so-called people who killed them?"

Bolvar approached Sylvanas. "What is this about you and the orcs?"

Most people would be flustered, but Sylvanas managed to look nothing more displeased. "Baseless accusations and, odds are, the reason you and your men are here."

"What I'd call it, Lady Windrunner, is proof that we're here for an unfortunately valid reason."

Sylvanas set her jaw. "The fact that I actually like you, Bolvar, is the sole reason you aren't already chained for leveling such accusations at a queen. But I expected more of you—this is what she wants. We're sitting here and bickering while my sister sentenced us all to death."

The eyes in the room went back to Alleria. "No, I sentenced us to fight. No one has to die. Not one more member of my people has to die. We can fight about why my say is the same as yours, sister, or we can figure out what we need to do to survive."

"What plan can there be?" Sylvanas said derisively. "Big ones with big weapons and shields at the front, everyone else at the back. Just like always. Positions, people. Those doors won't hold forever." A few soldiers shook hands and exchanged compliments. Some saluted Bolvar, who was still shooting looks over to Sylvanas. "Can I help you, Lord Fordragon?"

"Yes," he said with a nod. "If we survive this and you didn't help wipe out an elven city, I'd rather like to treat you to a nice meal in some private place or a cheap bottle of wine in a public place. Your choice."

For once, Sylvanas cracked a smile. "And if only half of that is true?"

"Well, if we don't survive, neither of us will be eating. If you bombed Auberdine, you'll be going to prison for more years than I can fathom. The good news is you should still be alive by the time your sentence is over."

"And the bad news?"
"I won't be, so ask my great-great-great grandson to take you up on my offer." Bolvar winked at her and took his place at the front of the line.

Valeera stayed with her. "Menethil."

"No. Windrunner." She pointed at Alleria. "Also Windrunner. The man was Fordragon. There's a Theron here somewhere. No Menethils here." Valeera shrugged, which only served to make Sylvanas even more bored with this one sided conversation. She slunk to the shadows while Sylvanas moved to her sister's side. "I love you, you strong headed, small minded harpy."

"And I love you, you overbearing, controlling, tunnel-visioning snake." She leaned her forehead against her Sylvanas'. "That's what's going to make the next few minutes all the harder."

"Knowing it'll be our last?"

Alleria shook her head. Then it kept shaking. "Sorry, s-s-sister. Just nerves."

Sylvanas studied her sister. "Yes, nerves. I suppose this would be the time for them."

Alleria's arm started twitching next. She managed to take a nervous glance over at Sylvanas.

"How long have you been at it, sister?"

"Not long. And just long enough."

"For what?"

Alleria gave Sylvanas a sad smile. "To become a queen." The spellbreakers all turned on their spots in the front of the formation and started cutting through Lordaeronian footmen. Alleria volleyed arrows at their back ranks while the one Sylvanas had called "Theron" joined in, launching fiery arrows into the air. The doors burst open and fully transformed Wretched stormed in, ignoring their corrupted allies and pouncing on the weakened footmen and archers, siphoning off their essences through blood magic.

"Wh.. Why? Alleria? Why?"

That sad smile never left Alleria's face. "Because you never knew what it was like to be the queen that was ignored. You never knew what it was like to be one of the most powerful women in this world and have your sister treat you as a leper. I needed my own people. You have yours, now I have mine." She readied her bow. "Go to them." The arrow was loosed and it buried itself in Sylvanas' shoulder before she could react. She stumbled back and fell, clutching her wound. The pain in her eyes was from far more than the arrow in her. Her head felt cushioned as it fell back, and it was. Valeera had caught her on the way down.

"Poison."

"Just let me die. I'd like to spend my last few seconds not dealing with you."

Valeera held up a clockwork device. "Menethil."

Understanding dawned over Sylvanas. "You… you can get us out?"

Valeera nodded, then pointed at Sylvanas. "Guilty."

Sylvanas sneered, but knew she was running out of time. "If I admit it, you get me out of here?"

Valeera nodded.

"Get as many of the humans out as you can too."

She nodded again, pushing a button on the device.

"Alright. I gave the orcs the technology. They promised to not encroach on my people's land as long as I helped them with the device. I didn't build it. I gave them a blueprint. I had no idea they had the resources to make it come to fruition. Now please, save them."

The second she was done talking, a shimmering blue portal opened up. Valeera helped Sylvanas to her feet and walked her through the portal while whistling sharply. The Lordaeronian army recognized the signal and retreated as fast as they could, leaving the throne room of Silvermoon City to their new race, the Wretched. When they stepped through, Menethil greeted them. "Get the injured inside the citadel," instructed Jaina. "The rest of you, breathe easy. Welcome to Dalaran."

Several familiar voices interrupted Sylvanas' sleep in bursts.

"...of course, but who wouldn't have done the same for their people?"

"…thinking with your pants, Bolvar, guilty is guilty…"

"…ways to atone. She could stay here…"

"…building a Stockade in Stormwind for just this kind of thing…"

Sylvanas started blinking and sat up. She was on a healer's table. Whoever treated her wound had done the dignity of putting her armor back on and her bow at her side.

"Look, I've been trailing her for months. She's a lunatic. She's somehow self-obsessed and obsessed with her own people at the same time. I have never met someone who manages to hate everyone else while trying to save them quite so effectively."

Sylvanas stood up, groaning as her body got used to being used again. "That statement was more words than you've managed to say to me since I've known you, Valeera." She held her head as she started to move. The world seemed to be moving without her. "How long was I out?"

Jaina rose, going to go help Sylvanas, even though it was clear that Jaina's child was due any day now. "Just a couple of days. Come, sit."

"I'm not going to your stockade?"

Jaina hesitated a moment, but did give an honest answer. "Not yet. We'd all like to talk to you first." She helped Sylvanas sit down between Bolvar and Valeera. They both immediately put a chain around the ankle closest to them then around their own.

"Do you talk to everyone after chaining them, Lady Menethil?"

Jaina sat down, exhaling loudly. "Only criminals."

"You don't know that I've done anything. I would've said anything to leave that room alive."

"We can determine if you did or not without you admitting it, Lady Windrunner, I would just prefer that you be truthful with us," Jaina said, slightly inclining her head. "It may look better when we decide your fate."

"You decide my fate? No one does that but me. And," she continued, returning to her usually venomous self, "while we're talking about honesty, do you care to explain our resident mute?"

Valeera decided to speak for herself. "I was one of your people before my kidnapping and missions abroad. I'm sure you don't remember, as I don't like using a bow, but I tracked you for a long time once I got back to Lordaeron. His majesty doesn't tend to trust people with such a keen reliance on the arcane—with one notable exception, of course—and especially not the fel. What we discovered is that the things you pride yourself on the most are visibility and force of will. I became the perfect tail for you: I'm not seen unless I want to be and when I got back to Lordaeron the second time, I was a bit traumatized. All I had to do was be that version of me again."

"So your goal," Sylvanas began, sounding both monotonous and confused, "was to give me the creeps?"

Valeera nodded. "Make you uncomfortable and throw off of your game. The plan was to unnerve you enough to make you seek a friend and confide in them what you're going through. Unfortunately, our plan hit a snag."

"And that is?"

"You don't have any friends other than Bolvar, and why would you say 'Oh, things are so rough now that you're here because I helped bomb your allies?' to him?"

"You could've been following my sister instead of wasting your time, as I said you were! What did you see me do every day? Patrol the city, patrol the forest, patrol the beach, catch dinner, go home and cook it, sleep. Every day."

"Every day, yes."

"Meanwhile, my sister was plotting this uprising and taking over the city I tried to hard to protect! Why, why didn't you listen to me?"

"I had my orders."

"Ah, right," Sylvanas said, gesturing over at Jaina. "From Menethil. I bet you think you're so clever."

Jaina thought it over, then nodded. "Yes, I'm quite clever. I didn't think you'd do anything foolish if you knew the king was watching. You don't fear me."
"I don't fear him, either."

"No, but you fear his army and you fear a world where that army is your enemy," Jaina continued calmly.

Sylvanas was left to seethe quietly in her fury. "What now, then? You know I did it."

"You didn't really do it. You were misguided, perhaps very… rash in your decision making." Jaina trailed off for a moment. "Okay, no more diplomacy. Sylvanas, you were really, really stupid, and because of that, lots of innocent people died. Our allies lost their direct ties to us and it will take many months and many resources to rebuild, assuming they can on the now corrupted land. I sent Valeera after you because I knew if my husband captured you, it would be the stockade or the gallows. No, it would be the gallows." She shook her head. "No, it would just be a sword. I knew that if we got you first, I could bring you here and I could find uses for your…" Jaina's diplomacy face came back on, "Talents. So, the decision lies with you. You can stick around here on a permanent basis and try to right the wrongs you've done to this world, or you can continue putting your 'I'm better than everyone around here' face on and be our first emissary to Stormwind. The stockade of it, anyway."

Sylvanas did not appreciate her directness. But she did appreciate the gravity of the situation. "And what about husband dearest?"

"You let me worry about him. You worry about yourself." Jaina got up slowly, letting out a little "oof" as she got to her feet. "You can have the night to think about it, but I'll need an answer in the morning. One of our associates is out testing the land by Auberdine and we'll know how bad it is then. Good day, Lady Windrunner." Valeera unchained herself from Sylvanas and also got up and walked away.

"For what it's worth, I'm not really sorry. You aren't a bad person, but someone had to bring you in. Your people are safe now." Valeera tried to give her a reassuring smile as she left.

So she turned her attention to Bolvar. "So, still up for that meal?" she asked without a trace of irony.

He studied her for a moment before unlocking his shackle and getting up. "Alright. But we are going to have a whooole lot to discuss over dinner. And you get to go first."

There was a loud pounding on the door just after the sun came up. The inn was otherwise quiet and empty at the orders of the Kirin Tor. The door opened.

"Lady Windrunner, your presence is demanded… oh, forgive me, Lord Fordragon. Can you direct me to Sylvanas' room?" said the attendant.

Bolvar eased his way out of the door, adjusting the last few pieces of armor he had to put on. "Knock louder. She's asleep." And without another word, he left. The confused attendant knocked much louder.

"Uh, Lady Windrunner?"

"Enter and die," came the response from the back of the room. She, the attendant, definitely chose not to enter.

"We, uh, have to take you to the Violet Citadel, m'lady. Rather urgently."

The clattering of chainmail echoed through the empty inn. "On who's orders? I'll only respond to Jaina Menethil. If this doesn't come directly from her, you are welcome to shove right off."

"Check under your door." There was a light shuffling. Sylvanas looked down and saw a bit of parchment. She picked it up and read it.

Sylvanas,

Don't worry: she is here on my accord. We had a bit of an emergency last night. You need to get to the citadel and be placed to in our custody. Yes, I know how this sounds. Yes, I know you don't want to. Please trust me.

Jaina

She crumpled the note up and cast it aside. It took her a moment to breathe, finish gearing up, and open the door. "Very well. Lead the way."

"Sorry," the attendant said quietly, "But this is protocol." She waved her hand over Sylvanas and crackling purple shackles bound her hands and feet.

Sylvanas sighed. "I don't know what it is with the Menethil line and their cuffs, but…" She made a drastic tugging motion and tried to tap into the arcane. The shackles flared up and got tighter. She let out a defiant snarl and tried again. They got even tighter. "Fair enough, then. Lead the way."

"Do you want me to loosen them?" the attendant asked with some concern.

"That's… not… necessary…" Sylvanas said, taking shuffling, tiny steps. She eventually grew strength enough to resist and walk normally. She gave Jaina a grateful nod when they passed her in front of the holding cells, but much to her surprise, Jaina just waved her hand, opened a cell, and used a bit of energy to shove Sylvanas back and into it, sealing it shut after.

"See? She's incarcerated." Jaina pointed at Sylvanas. Even through the field, she could hear two heavy plate boots then a light tap. Arthas walked up slowly, being aided by a crutch. He cast a hateful glare at Sylvanas.

"The Kirin Tor do not dish out justice in any way the kingdom of Lordaeron respects. You are either too harsh or too soft. Turn her over to us."
"You will mind your tone, Arthas."

Arthas perked a brow, looking incredulous. "I will what?"

"You will mind your tone. This is not Lordaeron or alliance territory. You have no rule in Dalaran."

"She attacked our allies, Jaina! Not directly, but because of her, the Kaldorei are crippled!"

"Because of her?" Jaina said, remaining calm. "I seem to remember you reporting that that part of the continent is now completely frozen over."

"Yes, but it was already in disrepair because of what she did! The crime had been done and we, the Alliance, are justified in wanting her to come to justice."

"Arthas, when you say 'justice', I know you mean 'death'. "

"…and? Her treachery was directly responsible for the death of fifteen elves, the destruction of a dock and six other structures, and it laid the beginning of a major orcish attack."
"Are we not now allied with those orcs against a bigger threat?"

What nonsense was Jaina talking about? Sylvanas hadn't heard anything like that.

"You dodge my points with nonsense, Jaina. It doesn't matter what the other circumstances are around her, what matters is what she did."

"My king, my darling… Lordaeron's rule doesn't matter here. Dalaran is self-ruling, as per the accords you signed into law."

Arthas breathed deeply through his nose. "I am aware of the laws, Jaina. I am here because of them. I am here to capture a traitor and see her tried for her crimes."

"The issue, Arthas," Jaina continued, "Is that she is already receiving punishment. As she committed a crime using unlawful magic, she falls well under the jurisdiction of the Kirin Tor, and as of a few days ago, she turned herself in."

Arthas thought over this turn of events. "You knew, didn't you?"
Jaina shrugged her shoulder coyly. "I'm not responsible for—"

"You knew, didn't you?" Arthas shouted.

"Did the king just raise his voice to a fellow ruler, or did a husband raise his voice to his wife?" Jaina asked coldly.

"Neither and both." Arthas hobbled around a moment, trying to calm himself down. "At the signing of the treaty, I agreed to not impugn on your sovereignty unless there was a greater threat to Lordaeron. At our wedding, we promised to do everything as equals and not keep each other in the dark. I am both angry as a king because she attacked our allies and their fallen deserve justice and as a husband because you clearly lied to me. Okay?"

Jaina nodded, going to Arthas and resting her hands on his chest. "I am rejecting you as an archmage because we have ways for her to truly face judgment and not just be punished, but truly make up for what she did. I am disappointed in you as a wife for raising your voice at me, but I forgive you because of how seriously you take protecting your kingdom."

"Is this spat quite over?" Sylvanas said through her field. "I'm sorry, but that was outright nauseating."

"Are you sure I can't take her back to Lordaeron, Queen Menethil?" Arthas asked one last time.

Jaina eyeballed Sylvanas. "Despite her last uttered phrase, no, we're going to keep her. But I'm also going to keep you because having your soul attacked is a bit traumatizing."

Arthas waved her off, shaking his head. "No, not at all. Well… yes, actually, it was horrible. But Tyrande and some troll called Vol'jin are teaching our archers and riflemen and I have to spar with Illidan Stormrage, whoever that is, and teach our ground fighters combat against the undead and elves."

Sylvanas let out a loud laugh. "Illidan? He would destroy you before you could even raise your sword."

Arthas walked right up to the field in front of Sylvanas. "Humans are often ignorant of other languages. I know we are. We see ourselves as the dominant race. As a king, I educated myself in the languages of the world." He gave examples of orcish, troll, and Kaldorei in a rather swift sentence. Afterwards, he tapped on the field. "But I'm afraid I didn't catch what you said. I don't speak criminal." Jaina gave him a disapproving look, but didn't move when he leaned down to kiss her cheek. His clank-clank-tap walk sounded his retreat.

"Sorry about that," Jaina said, lowering the field.

"Likewise," replied Sylvanas, "But you married him."

Feathermoon Stronghold was the reason why Feralas was never silent. It was the reason why the Horde never could encroach past their little camp near Thousand Needles. And it was the reason why elves could still sleep soundly. When it was first built, it was a simple elven outpost, full of artisans, druids and the trainees of the Sentinels. After the demonic invasion on which Draka'mar was founded, with the Horde's newfound confidence, Shandris Feathermoon knew that they couldn't simply be willing to train and counterattack. After a few years of construction, Feathermoon Stronghold was more of a citadel. The island itself was encapsulated by hundred foot tall walls that were a mix of elven masonry, stolen Horde iron, and the bones of the invaders who dares to encroach on the elven land.

Shandris Feathermoon was not to be trifled with. Once upon a time, she was a diplomat who simply trained the next generation of archers that would defend the lands. After enough aggression and standing by, Shandris knew it was time for a change in philosophy. Her brand of Sentinels weren't just stealthy archers and protectors. They were seasoned, hardened guerilla fighters. Only the ones strong enough to endure and survive the training were worthy to wield her bows and her colors. Their first test was to invade a Horde city, kill a guard, and come back without being caught. Bonus points if they brought pack a piece of armor, top marks if they brought back a head. As such, there were many skulls around the walls of Feathermoon Stronghold.

So the look of disgust on Shandris' face when the second boat arrived full of trolls and their leader was one the world may not have ever seen. "I was not aware this was part of our grand plan, Tyrande," she said tonelessly.

"Desperate times, sister, and I would thank you to use my title with the Horde here."

"Oh, pardon me, Lady Whisperwind." She scrunched her eyes closed tightly. "If we weren't down to about two hundred elves, I'd turn them on the trolls right now. You know that, right?"

"I do, which is why I am so grateful for your expertise. My brand of Sentinel was always more direct and for an army. Yours are experts in terror and deception. You can make the whole forest a weapon. That is what we need to get back to our home."

"You have been with humans too long if you believe appeasing one's ego is the best way to calm them."

"Yes, well, steel yourself." She turned from a soft whisper to a loud greeting. "Ah, you must be Vol'jin! Our people have… heard of your prowess. And felt it." She couldn't manage to be much of a diplomat around trolls.

Vol'jin humbled himself in a deep bow. "Ya be t'inkin' of me bruddahs in anoddah tribe, Tee-randuh. De Darkspear be fightin' fuh survival in de islands dey call home. Naga be swarmin' our homes e'ry day. De only qualms de Darkspear have wit' de elves is ya t'ink we look like de ones who be killin' ya."

Shandris gave him a slight bow, though her teeth were grit. "Forgive me, Vol'jin. I assumed you were the ruler of all of your people."

Vol'jin laughed. "If all de trolls band togeddah, don' no one stand a chance. Dere be t'ousands of tribes, but can't none a'dem agree on anyt'in'. De Darkspear only have a few 'undred but we proud and we skilled and we ready ta fight wit'cha."

Tyrande bowed her head graciously. "If that is true, Vol'jin, then I can foresee this going very well. However, I was under the impression most of your people throw axes or spears."

"Aye, dey do. Dat's why dey trainin' wit Garrosh, ya mate, and Art'as. Dese ones are…" he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his head to stall a moment. "…dese are food 'untahs."

Shandris' eyes bulged. "I'm sorry, food hunters? Like, they go out and shoot a deer or elk or… tiger, or whatever it is you people eat? That's what I'm training?"

Vol'jin walked over and clapped her on the shoulder. "'Ey, lighten up. At leas' dey know de pointy t'ing goes on de string, yeh?" He let out a loud laugh. "Besides, you control de moonlight, yeh? I control de darkness. Dis gonna be fun." He turned back towards the troops and shouted something in troll. They all laughed and fell into ranks with the elves.

Shandris' monotonous voice helped show just how unhappy she was. "You are aware that we both speak your language, yes? With many thousand year lives, there's not much to do but learn languages. However, I regret to inform you that turning me into a toad would not be particularly amusing, regardless of the fact that I am scowling like one." Tyrande was stifling a giggle throughout most of that.

Vol'jin clapped Shandris' shoulder again. "See? We gonna be fast friends, mon!" He walked back to the boat, singing something about killing two dwarves in the morning and killing two dwarves at night.

Shandris looked over at Tyrande. "What's the downside to letting the Forgotten of Elune win, again?"

Despite her protests, the trolls were far more adept at combat than Shandris thought. It was both good and horrible—their aim and speed with the weaponry was a little bit behind the average Sentinel, but they were rather disruptive, taking breaks to dance, drink, or smoke various plants when they weren't being addressed. The real issue was that discipline of her Sentinels began to wane when they saw that they could learn the motions and drills while having a good time. She gave the order for the elves and trolls to separate from each other in an effort to quell it, but when Vol'jin translated it, the trolls obviously pretended to not understand the order.

"Our next drill is about precision," she began. "We have reports that the druids of the plague can outright rejuvenate anybody that isn't completely useless. The Sentinels that made it home report that the most effective kills were from orcs cleaving the sentinels in two—" she delayed a second while the trolls cheered. Typical. "—or eye and head shots with arrows. The type of shot any Sentinel can make." Now the elves cheered. "The issue, of course, is that if any of our elite fell or if they got any, they're wearing all-covered armor. Hopefully the Kirin Tor or our priestesses can come up with a solution for that. Your next drill is waiting for you on the shore. With the help of Vol'jin, we've animated and armored some targeting dummies. They will react and shriek if they see you. Your mission is to find and kill one—and only one—and bring me their heads. You must remain unseen throughout and score a killing blow on your first try. You have until dusk. Failure takes you to Astranaar to train in Lady Whisperwind's Sentinel corps. No one wants that. Dismissed." The recruits of every race scampered.

Tyrande gave Shandris a disingenuous smile. "Now, Shandris, there is no need for that. Our methods are simply different."

"Yes," replied Shandris, "that is why Feathermoon has never fallen. Our enemies are felled before they can ever knock on our walls."

"I'll have you know that the Sentinels had not known a losing effort until the entire orcish army ran roughshod over them in their sleep and they still caused heavy losses."

"I see. So were we aligned with children before or after those losses? I'm sorry, I meant humans, not children."

Before Tyrande responded, she looked over at Vol'jin. Shandris joined her. He was looking incredibly amused. "Doncha find it funny dat people who t'ink da same t'ing, believe da same t'ing, an' teach da same t'ing argue the most? We got somma dem arcane casters, an' some like blowin' t'ings up, some like freezin', and some do weird stuff with time or somet'in' like dat, and dey all say dem's da best. Dey doin' da same t'ing, workin' for da same people, but dey fight like raptahs durin' breedin' season." He realized elves may not know what that means. "Er, dey fight fierce. You a couple o'raptahs, yeh? Fightin' an' clawin' over who de best but ya both lookin' fer da same t'ing."

Shandris didn't appreciate being compared to a large, clawed lizard. "I haven't heard you contribute much to this training, troll."

Vol'jin laughed. "Ya mon, dat's 'cause ya still weedin' out da weak ones. Vol'jin's trainin' ain't fer e'ryone."

Shandris walked right up to the troll and went face to face with him. "And the trolls that were killing our children as they trained, the ones who were using shadow magic and fire on our homes, did they receive Vol'jin's training?"

Vol'jin's expression turned soft. "De t'ings done to ya people be beyon' tragic, Shan-drees. I only speak fa de Darkspeah, an' nunna dem attackin' de elves in generations." However, the softness didn't ask long. "If all ya gonna do is condemn me fa de wrongs of all trolls, den I be remindin' ya dat we at war wit' Naga."

Shandris narrowed her eyes. "I don't like what you're implying."

"I don' like watchin' me people dyin' ta great evil fish elves. De kal'd… kal'do… yer people an' de Darkspeah can learn more togeddah den de suhvivahs can from a wa', yeh?"

She still didn't trust him, but she backed down. "Assuming we survive this war, I suppose."

"Ya people done enough bad ta yerselves wit'out needin' trolls ta 'elp. Ya know… de 'ole… not-really-immortal t'ing. Den de orcs an' now all dis. Dere no onnah in fightin' someone spread so t'in, an' ya don' have not'in' but wood an' we got plenty o' dat."

"I think that's enough. We don't have to recap our entire history, but I appreciate your words."

Vol'jin nodded. "Jus' makin' a point. If de 'umans land on our shoahs, we figh'. We kill. We probably lose, but we defen' de land. But dis de firs' time Darkspeah stand on elf soil. Now, if ya 'scuse me," he stepped away hurriedly before they excused him or not.

"I often forget your intensity, sister," Tyrande said.

"Says Whisperwind, slayer of wardens of Elune's children."

Tyrande looked visibly taken back. "I meant it as a compliment."

"As did I, Lady Whisperwind. Though humans are a foul breed, I admire what they do with the forest. They cultivate it and protect it, but they also defile it and harvest it, just to build it anew. If parts of the wood succumb to rot, they set a controlled, purging fire. They know where to set it and where to stop it. You, Tyrande, are the purging fire of the Goddess. Your Sentinels are licks of flame, taking what they must and sparing the rest. My Sentinels, meanwhile, are more of… Ragnaros, the Fire Lord. An all-consuming fire that needs only be started before all is ash. There are uses for both of us, Lady Whisperwind."

Vol'jin returned before Tyrande could reply. He set down a large device that was already letting off a small billow of smoke. "Bringin' up Ragnaros, mon?" He shook his head. "Too soon. Now, dis whatcha need." He quickly rolled a barrel over, put down three tall glasses, tapped the barrel, and filled the cups up. "Ya 'ear ev'ryt'in' 'bou' dwahf an' orc an' ogah brewin', but I bet ya ain' nevah had real Echo Isle rum." He set the glasses down in front of Tyrande and Shandris.

Tyrande gave it a look and considered it. "What does it do?"
"Clears ya 'eart an' ya mind. Ya 'ave some an' ya stop worryin'. Ya 'ave a bunch and ya don' 'ave no care in da world, mon." He took another large gulp.

Tyrande shrugged. "Well, you don't get to be as old as I am without trying a few things."

Shandris walked forward and snatched it from her hand. "He's a troll, Tyrande. They regenerate naturally. I've seen them mend wounds just by sitting there that would have resulted in one of us losing a limb or needing several blessings from several priests. Who knows what this will do to you?"

Vol'jin downed his glass and filled up another. "Ya don' know how ta switch off, do ya? Come, I spent da 'ole time I be knowin' ya provin' that ya don' 'ave ta 'ate me, why would I poison ya?"

Tyrande pursed her lips, but they gave way to a smile. "Well, I this is about uniting our cultures for a bit." She raised her cup, sniffed it, decided it was okay to drink, and took a sip that led to a long, loud drink of it. Once she swallowed, her eyes went wide. "Did you poison me? It burns!" She started coughing. Shandris drew her bow and leveled it at Vol'jin.

"What kinda drinks do yer people drink at de festivals?"

"Wine," Shandris responded quickly and curtly, the arrow ready to be launched between his tusks.

Vol'jin started laughing. "Oh! Dat be explainin' ev'ryt'in'! Wine is fah babies an' old ladies, mon. Wine is jus' juice dat ya fahget abou' fah a few ye-ahs. Dis is a drink fah dem who drink."

Shandris studied Tyrande closely for a moment. She recovered and went back to drinking the rum with a shrug. That time she simply coughed, but laughed afterwards. "Oh, come on, Shandris. It's not so bad. It actually tastes fruity."

"Dat's banana, mon. I know ya 'ad one of dem sometime, eh?"

Tyrande smiled broadly, thinking back. "Oh, yes, but it has been so long. Most of what we grow are apples and we make cheeses and wine. After the Hyjal incident, we haven't been too far away from the World Tree. Actually, this citadel is the furthest reach of the hand of the Goddess, right Shandris?"

If Tyrande had been hoping casual conversation was going to wear Shandris down, her hopes were dashed. "Yes, and that hand has a firm grip here because my Sentinels and I do not indulge in such things as rum and bananas."

"Dat ain' faih," Vol'jin replied, "Bananas are good fah ya, dey come righ' from a tree. We jus' take somma dem juices, do a little bitta distillin' an' a little bitta voodoo and ya go' dis 'ere." The elves cast him a cautious eye. "Uh, no real voodoo. I promise."

Shandris sighed, shrugged, and tipped her glass up to her mouth, downing it quickly. She made no reaction at all to any burning or aftertaste. "There. Now we're allies. Or something."

Hours later, a strange mix of the tribal drums of the Darkspear Tribe and the more elegant string and wind instruments of the Kaldorei echoed out through the walls and open ceiling of Feathermoon Stronghold. Vol'jin had brought enough rum so that every successful recruit could have just about one mouthful. Unfortunately, forty of the two hundred recruits failed. The dummies were set up to let out a loud shriek if they spotted anything, followed by a net launching device. The successful recruits had to go rescue the others, who were summarily dismissed after their celebratory drink. The rest, well, most hadn't had rum before and their minds were reacting according and convincing them that they could dance when they actually couldn't. Their leaders, meanwhile, sat in front of a great bonfire, laughing here and there. "Okay, okay," Tyrande began, "So is it true that orcs are always angry?"

Vol'jin started nodding. "So angry, mon! Always! Dere dis one guy, oldah. 'is axe nevah shahp enough, 'is son nevah big enough, an' when we know 'im comin', we make 'is favahrite stuff. 'e wan' kodo ribs in a berry and 'erb sauce. I seen 'im eat dem ribs t'irty times, and e'rytime 'e eat e'vry single bite den 'e find somet'in' ta say. 'Too sweet!' 'Too many 'erbs!' 'Cooked too long!' I tell 'im if dere somet'in' wrong, 'e don' 'ave ta eat not'in'. Den 'e grumble and leave, only ta come back a few days latah for more'a'da same. An' dey all da same, yellin' 'bou' 'onnah, stren't', weaklin's. Livin' wit' dem is all so loud an' annoyin'."

Tyrande let out a little chuckle. "Try living with gnomes. No matter what you do or touch or look at, ten seconds later, it explodes! I have seen their livestock explode!" Vol'jin looked shocked. "No, really! They have little silver chickens with rockets attached to them, they have sheep that explode if you touch them, and they even have little clockwork cats."

"Don' be judgin' me, but ain' a gnome a babeh dwahf?"

Shandris, who hadn't had enough rum to really be in the jolly spirit, just shook her head. "No. Different race. Just like cows on a pasture aren't the same as a Tauren."

Vol'jin shrugged. "Well, dey taste de same." The elves trained their eyes on him. He burst out laughing. "I'm jus' kiddin'! Jus' kiddin'." They relaxed. "Dey actually taste terrible. All muscle, no fat." Once again, the aghast stares returned. "No, no, I… wha's de word? When ya jus' kiddin' aroun' ta rile someone up?"

Shandris sighed. "From where I stand, you're just being a troll."

"I call it a talen', mon!" Vol'jin got up to his feet, chuckling. "Come on, Shan-drees, don' you go' any talen's?"

"That is utterly irrel—" she stopped talking as she noticed the music had stopped. The call of hawks pierced the night, something Shandris had never heard. She looked up and saw a moving orange cloud with little black bits darting around. When she focused, she could see the little black bits were the hawks. "Druids of the Plague! The Forgotten of Elune are here!" The jovial atmosphere dissipated as the Sentinels and trolls armed themselves. Dozens of large black forms dropped from the cloud and landed with a plop. Upon further inspection, they were the bodies of fallen Sentinels, who pieced themselves together and stood up after a moment and used their broken bones for ammo in their bows. "You want to see my hidden talent, troll?" Shandris said, finally arming herself. Her weapon was intimidating—a more intricately etched and distinctly elven warglaive that had its handle strung to be used as a bow. "Look and see." She ran towards the chaos, virtually disappearing within the shadows. But she wasn't hard to spot: every once in a while, an undead archer would fall over in half. Vol'jin watched in open mouthed wonder as she cleaved one, dashed, beheaded another, then jump up in the air and launched two arrows, each one hitting a plagued hawk in the chest, then disappearing again.

Vol'jin put his tiki mask on, grabbing his own bow. "I gotta admit, Tee-randuh, I like dat one." He leapt into the fray, his purple shadow-charged arrows erupting in small bursts around their targets. Tyrande moved into action, her moon-blessed arrows a stark contrast that left a burning smell of flesh in the air after every successful shot.

"Don't let them touch you!" she yelled, knowing full well that every dead troll or elf would raise against the living ones. These Sentinels and the trolls were doing fairly well, but the issue with guerilla tactics is that they rely on cover. Feathermoon Stronghold was mostly open. Nonetheless, they were fierce fighters and able to hold their own. Most of the Forgotten of Elune had been felled and burned before there was a living casualty.

Naturally, since nothing good could happen to the living anymore, a loud chorus of shrieking birds made them all look up. Twice as many were coming. Forms dropping to the ground were bigger—orcs, tauren, some were even naga and murlocs. Varian had been busy. The numbers quickly overwhelmed the living.

"Defensive positions!" Shandris called out. They all doubled back to the staging area, forming a perfect circle with someone pointing in every direction. "Arrows only! If they are close enough to use a sword on, you have already failed the others around you."

Vol'jin shouted something in troll, which he turned and translated for the elves. "De shadow 'untahs 'elp wit dat, mon." Most of the trolls starting chanting spells under their breath and whole groups of the undead turned into large, confused frogs. They were easy enough to shoot—or in desperate occasions, step on—but their numbers were endless. A Sentinel with a concealed wound turned in the middle of the defensive group, killing another two and a troll before she was noticed and put down. That distraction was enough to break in the lines. Vol'jin tossed his bow to one of the trolls in the line. They nodded at him. "'Ey, elfies. Ya come back fah Vol'jin, ya 'ear?" He raised his hands to the sky and started doing a tribal dance. And eerie purple glow encapsulated everyone—aside from Vol'jin. Varian's forces slashed, launched arrows, and tore at the bubbles uselessly. The realization of what was happening dawned on them at the same time it did on the living.

Tyrande made eye contact with Vol'jin. "We will find you, my friend."
"Vol'jin countin' on it. And 'ey, quiet missy." Shandris perked a brow. "Ya make me wish ya was bahn a troll ta see ya fightin' like dat. Been an 'onnah."

"Don't talk like you're dead, troll. You aren't yet." She gave him a crisp salute. "Everyone! Through the gates! Trolls on Lady Whisperwind, Sentinels on me! We'll meet with the Unseen. MOVE!" Running out of the spell Vol'jin had been channeling was like emerging from a thick layer of jelly, each elf or troll making a distinct pop as they ran out. The first group shoved the gates open and for the rest to run through.

"Don' nunnaya look back. Vol'jin gotta wohk 'is mojo to get outta dis." Despite his request, Tyrande and Shandris looked back. He nodded a bow to them and they closed the doors, sealing Feathermoon Stronghold.

King Arthas Menethil was severely outnumbered. He wasn't happy to begin with agreeing to train in the famous bazaar of Draka'mar, but even worse, he had Illidan Stormrage, who insisted that that heavy armor is a walking coffin when a fast killer like him is around; his lackey, Edwin VanCleef, who was still upset about the whole lack-of-payment thing and appeared to study every move Illidan made; and worst, Garrosh Hellscream. He was insufferable on a good day—and just when did an orc have a good day—but since his inheriting of the mantle of the warchief and surviving an encounter with the one the orcs called Lo'Gar, or "Dead Wolf", Hellscream's warriors had taken on an utterly fanatical devotion to him. He no longer wore chest armor, preferring instead to expose the permanent knuckles-and-fist bruise over the left side of his chest and his army had followed suit, putting fist-shaped war paint on their own exposed chests. This devotion, however, led to his armor (and most distressingly, his cloak) being saturated in orcish spit. Jaina would've been proud—he hadn't killed any of them and he didn't allow his knights to engage in any countermeasures against the spitters.

On top of all of that, Garrosh was starting the proceedings and he refused to speak in common, leaving it all for VanCleef's interpreter goblin to spout back at them. That goblin was getting lots of mileage, why hadn't anyone bothered asking his name? It was probably something ridiculous like Goldfrazzle or something. Arthas decided that this goblin's name was Goldfrazzle. In short, he was distracting himself because he didn't particularly care what Garrosh was saying. It was only when Illidan cleared his throat that Arthas started paying attention.

"Sorry, I missed the interpretation, something about focusing on the layer of saliva on my cloak," Arthas said half-heartedly.

"Goldfrazzle" translated that, as was his job. The orcish army was united once again, this time in laughter. "Garrosh was sayin' you should explain what each of yous is doin' since yer the weakling human king and on account of you not being strong enough to survive the orcish training."

Arthas wore a look of intense displeasure. "Charming. So incredibly charming." Arthas asked himself the same question he always did when approached with such a predicament: WWJD? What would Jaina do? He knew even before marriage that she was much more of a diplomat than he was. Even after many years of training of restraint, he often found himself imagining what it would be like to just swing Light's Vengeance (his great warhammer) and solve his problems like that. This was obviously not the time for that. So he cleared his throat and began. "Ladies and gentlemen of Draka'mar, thank you for inviting myself and my allies into your beautiful city in this time of crisis. As your young warchief can attest, the world has become a quite strange, terrifying place that requires unity from all of Azeroth's people in order to preserve the world. I got off lucky. Varian—or Lo'Gar, as you call him—simply used his darkness to choke me. I'm convinced he was trying to absorb my soul, and thanks to your brave and powerful warchief, Grommash Hellscream, I am alive to this day." Speaking of Grommash elicited him a raucous series of cheers. Maybe that's what he should do, just constantly talk of the orcs he's heard of. Actually, no, since Thrall is the only other one he'd interacted with and he'd passed several posters seeking his head for no reward. "When I realized we'd have to fight this war together, I came here ready to divulge all the human military secrets to you. The problem is, when I fought him, I found out he's not doing anything humans trained him to do. His strategies and tactics are nothing I've seen. Rather, I haven't seen them since my time in Northrend. The undead follow their objective until their bodies can no longer move, and that's what we have to do: render them motionless. As such, each of us will be teaching you something that we have become experts in. Illidan Stormrage, patron of the Unseen and one of the best melee combatants in history, will be teaching you advanced weaponry tactics. His warglaives are feared throughout the planet and any weapon in his hands is immediately many times more deadly. Edwin VanCleef is… a builder and a pirate. He has survived so long by being untouchable. He has assured me he can make even the biggest and bulkiest among you as nimble as the smallest. I myself will be teaching you mounted combat, alongside the pride of our army, the Knights of the Silver Hand. Our warhorses and your war wolves can make you faster than you ever imagined and with proper training, they are valued allies. My steed, Invincible, has more kills in combat than many of my army." The crowd didn't look hostile, but certainly not interested. "Now that all being said, we all wish to work together to save this world, but I will not suffer your indignities any further. If you spit on me again, you had better be ready to challenge me to honorable combat afterwards, but only after you consult the ancestors I will send you to." Jaina certainly wouldn't do that, but that definitely won him fierce glares from the orcs, many of whom seemed to now beam at him with respect at the same time—a skill only orcs seemed to have. Arthas raised his hand in thanks and left for the stables. It was a shock to him when he received a loud chorus of cheers. It didn't particularly matter that orcs apparently didn't loathe him for the moment, but it didn't feel that bad, either, knowing he could win such a hostile crowd.

The crowd dispersed not long after, with lines forming in equal parts for VanCleef and Arthas. Illidan had only a few recruits—probably something to do with them having demon blood and him being the Betrayer. VanCleef began by paring everyone up, faction against faction, and giving out practice swords in order to prevent the inevitable tragedy that real weapons would be responsible for. "Seeing your sworn enemy," he explained, "Will make the training that much more urgent. Do you want to be the one that lets your faction lose to the Alliance cowards or the Horde swine? Oh, did I fail to mention? My assistants and I will be keeping points. Now, pay attention if you want to learn." Arthas went too far away to hear any of the rest of the tips, especially considering that the sound of a huge farm full of horses and wolves was a bit deafening once he got close. Invincible was one of the few not making any sort of ruckus. He approached his steed and started gently stroking his neck while the others approached. No point in starting until everyone was there, and with the way things were going, Invincible's name would be put to the test soon enough. He'd miss that time on his steed. Even more than Uther or Muradin, that horse had stayed by his side through his training, his mistakes in Northrend, his promotion to king, his marriage, and soon, a child would be born to him and the love of his life.

And now his best friend some sort of a hate-filled, magical zombie forming an army to freeze and otherwise defile the world. What a time to be alive. The stragglers stopped coming in, so he climbed up on his horse. "Everyone, pick a mount. I don't care if an orc is on a horse or a human is on a wolf or an elf is on an orc, just pick something, arm yourself, and listen." It took a few moments for that order to be met. "Since becoming king, it seems like all I really do is give speeches. I've gotten quite good at it, truth be told. I just had a group of orcs cheer for me, so I must be doing something right. But combat is in my blood. I served in the army long before I was king and I know what it takes to be victorious. In mounted combat, the first thing it takes is trust. You're going to urge your mount to go places that it knows, by instinct, will get it killed. If it trusts you, it will go. If not, you and it will be standing there a bit stupidly while your allies face glorious combat. While you're there, if it trusts you and it cares about your safety, it will engage your enemy. If not, it will cower, maybe even buck you off. So let's begin. If you've been on your mount before, form left. If you're new, form right." They did. "Good. If you're on the right, get down off of your mounts. There are food and treats in the stables. Bribery works best on goblins and animals, and you'll find this works just fine to begin bonding with your mount. Left side, draw your weapons and try simple jousting."

Hours passed. Arthas actually found himself having fun, not that that was the purpose. By the end, one of the orcish warriors, a Dranosh Saurfang, actually managed to make Arthas teeter on his mount. Impressed, he appointed the young orc to the head of the orcish mounted troops. Garrosh protested, saying a human didn't have the right to make such a bold statement, but he ended up agreeing anyway. The Unseen politely declined any further mounted combat training, but spent a rather large amount of time with Edwin VanCleef, who had put on a rather epic, as the kids say, sparring contest against Illidan that ended in what was decided as a draw after both men were too tired to continue and hadn't scored a successful hit against each other in an hour. Illidan, ever prideful, accused VanCleef of cheating since he was able to use trace amounts of what Illidan had assumed was shadow magic every time he got in trouble. As it turned out, Edwin just had concocted a pouch full of low grade explosives that, when thrown to the ground, erupted in a cloud of concealing smoke. Arthas was grateful, though, that the ship ride back was thankfully silent now that VanCleef's hero worship was at an end.

VanCleef busied himself with his daughter, telling stories about the inside of Draka'mar. She feigned interest, but it was obvious to Arthas that she had probably snuck her way in and had seen most of this firsthand. It also became obvious to VanCleef when she corrected him about the placement of the warchief's stronghold. He tried to look disappointed, but it was clear he was a proud father for her already being so clever.

Illidan busied himself staring off in the general direction of Feathermoon Stronghold, as much a blindfolded, eyeless person could stare. Arthas went to his side, hoping to offer words of comfort. "You know, if I did that, I'd have to look up in the sky. Funny how war and the possibility of impending death makes you focus on those you love."

Illidan snorted lightly, nodding. "It is a cruel world we live in, Arthas. For my mate and I to survive this, my only brother must die."

"Haven't you two hated each other for several thousand years?"
"Not caring for one's brother is not the same as not caring if you have to kill them. We would live for another several thousand years. Imagine if we could make amends and continue trying to protect the wilds of this world together? If we could go back to how things were before…" he trailed off.

"The whole 'betrayer' thing VanCleef was babbling about on the way here?"

"Yes. That. I would prefer not to talk about it."

"I understand. I guess as your new ally, I just wonder if you still have the power and the capability so I know if we have to keep an eye on you as well."

Illidan turned his face to Arthas. "The power? Yes. The capability? No. I will never be that man again." He turned back toward the sea.

"I often wonder myself what would've happened. I was prepared to take up a cursed blade to protect my people. I can't say I was a good man and stopped because of it. I stopped because there was a cave in. I didn't think about disappointing my friend, Muradin. I didn't think about my father, or Jaina, or the men, women, and dwarves I promised to bring home. There were simply too many rocks in my way. I don't know your story past what your biggest fan seems to know, but it sounds to me like you chose to stop for yourself. That makes you a bigger man than most who have power."

Illidan tilted his head in a grateful bow. "Anyone who knows me knows I don't particularly need my ego stroked, but I do appreciate the words, your highness. But you were right about one thing."

"What's that?"

"I'm told you told the recruits that you spend too much time making speeches." Illidan smirked. "Many people find that short sentences work just fine." Just then, a brilliant streak of aqua light shot up towards the sky and starting closing in on them at startling speed. Even Illidan reacted to it.

Arthas gestured at it. "What is that? See? That was a short sentence."

"I fear I know. I sense something familiar about it." That may have been a pun, Arthas decided, as the form got closer and was more clearly a spectral owl. Illidan held his arm out and the owl landed on it. It blinked out spectral tears. Illidan shuddered and nodded, sending the owl back from where it came. "Turn this boat around. With respect to your kingship, Arthas, I must return to my people at once. Feathermoon has fallen. We are going to do something ridiculously drastic and I cannot allow the kingdom of Lordaeron to fall as well."

Arthas didn't have time to be offended. He simply agreed. "Yes, I'll return to Draka'mar and get word to the Kirin Tor. VanCleef with me and let's get this boat turned around."

"No, Arthas. I'm going with the elves. Lady Whisperwind and Lord Stormrage have done more for me than Lordaeron ever did."

"Fine, but I still need an interpreter."

"Very well. Goldfrazzle, stay with the king."

Arthas managed to chuckle inappropriately in this time of crisis as the confused Goldfrazzle joined him. "It's settled, then. We'll try to get the Kirin Tor aboard and launch our attack. Meet us in Auberdine if you are successful." There were handshakes and nods, but the rest of the boat trip was spent in quiet concern.

Sylvanas wasn't overly pleased with the situation, but it beat a lifetime in prison or a lifetime cut short by a gigantic hammer. In fact, she wasn't even aware there was an archer discipline amongst the Kirin Tor, but apparently there was some sort of magic that allowed you to tap into arcane energy and empower your shots with it to either make wounds burn or sap mana energy from your victim. Not that it was particularly complicated magic since all Quel'dorei and even the Wretched could manage to tap into the arcane with the slightest effort, but weaponizing it was certainly intriguing. Sylvanas could feel Jaina's influence all across the city, and this assignment was no different. Even though she had only been the commander of the archer force for a few days (much to the anger of many of the more senior members), she already had her own advisor, who apparently had jumped at the chance to work with her, and an assignment: Reclaim Silvermoon City. She assumed Jaina had done this so quickly to get on her good side, but that Antondias fellow mentioned something about ley lines and Quel'thalas being the last unintegrated land of the Eastern Kingdoms. Kel'thuzad—and honestly, who names their child "Kel'thuzad" without assuming they'll grow up to be some sort of evil overlord?—added that the Wretched using fel magic was a slippery slope to full blown demon summoning and necromancy, even though Sylvanas assured him that the Wretched didn't have mind enough to do anything like that. Either way, it had to be stopped before it got started. Honestly, they had her devotion once they said they wanted to take her city back. She met with Jaina on her way to the briefing.

"Good day, Lady Windrunner," Jaina greeted her, prim and proper as usual, "I don't have very long to talk. Many of the humans of the Kirin Tor will be rejoining the Lordaeronian forces to assault the Lost King."

"The who?" Sylvanas said, trying to keep up with Jaina's fast pace.

"That's what they're calling him. Because he was lost, or because he lost his way and he was one of several people who were seen as a possible heir when Terenas was so sick. Regardless, he's, erm, sort of taking over the world with an army of corpses. It's a rather complicated time to be a human."

"Then why not send our rangers to assist in the battle?"

Jaina looked at her uncomfortably. "In case we lose. If we do, all surviving members of our armies need a place to recover. Though I have a great deal of sway in the Kirin Tor, the official stance of our organization is neutrality for now. Unfortunately, due to the circumstances of the city and your own capture, should you be successful, we are going to claim it and use it as a base to study the effects of arcane and fel addictions, while of course returning it to its indigenous people."

Sylvanas, once upon a time, would've not reacted very well to that. But the paradigm had shifted. "So, I'm risking life and limb of both myself and your new arcane archer team to turn my city into a laboratory?"
"And a refuge," Jaina said lightly.

"When can my sister and I return to ruling it?"

Jaina had to be delicate with that question, though she knew it would inevitably come up. "Your sister is currently the traitor queen who is ruling over a band of… well, monsters. Depending on the outcome of the battle and the laws of your people, she may stand trial with the Quel'dorei or with the Kirin Tor, if her crimes against magic are documented, provable, and as horrible as they seem. However, after a few classes, campaigns and … erm, years, I assume that you could return to co-leading your people."

"Co-leading? Who do you have in mind?"

Jaina opened the door to the Kirin Tor war room which had portals that led to all around the globe so they could appear where needed at a moment's notice, and more recently several archers waiting to give the signal to their fellow trainees. "This is where I take my leave. Good luck, and go with honor, Lady Windrunner." She left a bit too quickly for Sylvanas to reply, but the disapproving glare of a flamboyantly dressed elf, covered head to toe in bright red robes, standing over a large map took over her attention.

"Ah. Good day to you, Kael'thas," Sylvanas said quietly.

"I do not recall my last good day, Sylvanas. Oh, no, I do, actually."

"Don't—"

"As I recall, I told you and your sister to watch over the city while I was gone. That should be a fairly trivial task since we were not in any war, had no allies, had no enemies, and outside of a very tiny issue with a few dozen of our people becoming fel addled husks, we lived a quiet life of peace."

"Don't start with me, Kael'thas."

Kael'thas put his hands on his hips, staring her down. "You have lost the right to use my name, child. You are speaking to your king."

Sylvanas sneered and didn't say anything for a moment. "Forgive me, my king."

Kael'thas gave her a false smile. "Forgive you? Why, whatever for? The disrespect? Not finding a way to contact me once things started going badly? Losing an entire city in the span of a few hours, even with the aid of Lordaeron's troops?"
"Hey, let's be fair," Sylvanas began, "Lordareon's army is boorish and not half as fearsome as previously thought."

"That failure lies on their commander, I'm afraid." Sylvanas didn't bother turning around as Bolvar made his way in. "We had remarkably little to do for most of our occupation in your fine city, Sun King, and my scouts and knights grew soft and comfortable thanks to the hospitality of your people."

"I shall pass that on to the thirty seven of them that still draw breath, human," Kael'thas condescended. "Is that what passes for a human apology?"
"I apologize for nothing, Sun King. I acted on the intelligence we had in the way that made the most sense at the time. If we all could do things in hindsight, I assume there would be a great deal of different paths we would've taken in the past few months."

"Can I exile you? Are we part of the Alliance now so you're beholden to me?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Well, I know we aren't part of the Horde. That would just… ridiculous. Bah! Very well. How many of your army still lives?"

"Lots, but they got called back to serve their kingdom. I am here for the Quel'dorei."

Sylvanas scoffed, looking at Bolvar in disbelief. "Excuse us," she said, dragging Bolvar back by the arm. "What do you think you're doing?"
"The only thing I'm good at is protecting people, Sylvanas."

"I do not need protection."

He laughed a bit too loudly to be real. "I'm aware of that! I'm not talking about you. Kay… Kile… Fancy man over there said you only have thirty seven people left. In Lordaeron or Stormwind, I'm just another guy in a shiny bunch of armor that people have to listen to. I can make a difference to your people."

Sylvanas smirked, possibly genuinely. "If this is to force something out of last night—"

"No, it isn't. I know what last night was: Two people that didn't die when they should have celebrating life with the finest food, the finest drinks, and the finest company."

"Good, because, Lord Fordragon, people like you and me don't get to have that happy ending people tell their children about. We were born. We serve. We die. Hoping for more is a fool's errand. Finding the best is what we do and I consider you an ally and a friend—something else people like you and me don't get to have. I do look forward to working with you."

Bolvar bowed, smiling, before putting his warhelm on. "And I you. Now let's save that city!" He rushed off, stepping through the portal to Eversong Woods. Kael'thas looked on at him.

"Is that what humans always do? Rush in before there's a plan?"

"Generally," Sylvanas agreed. "Now, what is that plan?"

Kael'thas stretched his neck to gaze through the portal. "Do you think you could bring him back here? That armor was… rather striking."

Sylvanas squinted her eyes. "What? I thought you and Jaina used to—"

"Used to. We're teaching our apprentices how to specialize in more than one discipline. Why can't we?" He winked at her before going back to the battleplan. Sylvanas went back on autopilot as he pointed to places she had recently seen smoldering or littered with bodies. Bolvar was right—in hindsight, much would've been done differently. But that wasn't the Windrunner way. Always determined, always forward, and always right, especially when you're wrong. She steeled her nerves and gave a warm smile of anticipation. No matter what happened, Sylvanas knew things were going to work out as they needed to.

Part 5: The Azshara Campaign

It was a strange time in the world. Tyrande, Illidan, Edwin VanCleef and their legion of archers, assassins, pirates, and thieves assembled at the back gate of Draka'mar. Rather, they were inside, which was even more perplexing. The axe throwers, spear chuckers, and shadow hunters assembled with them, all ready to flex their considerable muscle after a few weeks of interdisciplinary training. A few of the elves had successfully turned each other into frogs, while some of the trolls were managing to hide and track better than elves could, even in the darkness. The Unseen could now be called the untouchable after a few weeks with VanCleef's, as Illidan called it, "dirty tricks combat." The pirates and thugs VanCleef brought spent most of the sessions getting drunk and hitting on the elves, often of any gender, thanks to the rum that apparently everyone but the elves had heard of. However, in those training sessions, the Forgotten of Elune had become increasingly bold. They controlled all of Darkshore, most of Ashenvale, and had begun pushing their way into Azshara. They often found Hellscream paranoid, but there was little doubt about where they had intended to end their campaign. It didn't seem as if they were ready—not by a longshot—but they absolutely had to be.

"We have two options," Tyrande began to explain to Rokhan, Vol'jin's second in command, "We can try to take them in the forest before they reach the city, but that runs the risk of Malfurion managing to corrupt the land underneath us and turning our troops before we can make any progress. The other is to set up your war machines and get as much concealment at these gates as we can and fight them here. It gives us less room to push them back, but it keeps our troops safer for longer. I would assume the better plan would be to defend at the gate, but this is your city, not mine."

Rokhan considered it briefly before turning around and shouting in orcish. "We bahrahcade de outside of da gate. Give ouah people a place ta defen'. Rokhan go to da bazaah in case ya…" he nodded solemnly, "In case." He saluted her, uttered a blessing in troll, and ran back to the center of the city.

"Brothers and sister of Azeroth!" began Tyrande, looking out over the rapidly constructing fortifications. "Today, none of our lives are important. Not one. Every single one of our lives must be ready to be laid down for the good of our planet. Do not waste a second of effort, but do not sacrifice yourself either. You must be ready to die here, now. You must not assume that tomorrow is guaranteed to any of us. But that being said, look around you. Every elf, troll, human, ogre, goblin—every person here with a pulse is now a member of your dying family. Your life is not important, but theirs is. They are willing to die to make sure you live. We must move as a family, protect as a family, and survive as a family. I look around and I see many people who I would have loved to have sought retribution for my people on before, but now I have got to learn about the beautiful history and traditions of the Darkspear tribe and I say to you that I want them to continue thriving in the world. I want their story to continue being told. I want my people to raise new generations of elves and learn our proud heritage and see a new era of peace after generations of bloodshed. But that can only come about with a victory. Your life is not important today. But it is extremely important tomorrow. I wish to see all of you when the sun comes up. For Azeroth!" The troll translator had done her job well—Tyrande was met with an uproar of applause and battlecries… which faded almost instantly as they were stealth fighters and suddenly had places to hide. The Unseen went deeper into Azshara, hiding among the trees. The spear chucking trolls went with them, as their precise aim and toned bodies made them capable allies to the Unseen. The gates of Draka'mar sealed with a loud crash as Tyrande, VanCleef, and the Sentinels and shadow hunters hid closer to the gates. When everyone was concealed, there was only stillness. It was only just after dusk, so Tyrande knew plenty of animals should've still been out and awake. That was not a good sign.

They all stood in their spots patiently, silently, listening. Their ears aren't what caught their encroaching enemy. The stench of thousands upon thousands of decaying bodies wafted towards them like an unseen assault. They had trained a few days near decaying meat for just this purpose, but from her position in the highest branches of the tallest tree near the gates, she could see trolls and elves alike stumble, some falling out of their trees and some outright retching at the pungent quality now permeating the air. They gathered themselves as quickly as they could, knowing each movement could be met with a hail of bone arrows meant for their hearts. Moment after soundless moment passed when suddenly, the front line gave out the signal of contact—the playing of tribal troll drums. Tyrande looked around as if lost. There were no sounds of arrows volleying, nor swords clashing. She gave the signal to hold, not sure of what else to do until they could more properly assess their threat. Suddenly, the sounds of battle started coming through. "Oh no…" she said, getting concerned looks from those around her. She could hear just enough to determine what had come to battle. "Malfurion has turned nature against us. I can hear them. Bears, wolves, owls, nightsabers… oh, Goddess, what have we done that all of your children and creatures have been perverted so?" She closed her eyes. "Same plan, only more dire. Aim for the heads as much as you can. Retreat to the forest as need be, but be aware of nightsabers and birds lurking in the shadows. Let's move forward and support the front line. You three," she said, gesturing at three axethrowers, "With me. We reclaim the skies from these poor creatures." She chose the trolls because though it was necessary, Tyrande would have a hard time killing owls, her favorite of all of Elune's creations. She didn't think trolls would have such sentimentality, and as they moved through the forest, it became obvious they did not. Though rotting and often featherless owls still swooped down to peck at-and-out the eyes of their living targets, the trolls and Tyrande were able to track down most of them as they advanced to the front lines.

Meanwhile, Illidan, VanCleef, and the Unseen were not faring particularly well against the onslaught of undead bears and nightsabers. Any elf could take down any one of the animals, but they never came one at a time—the second you found yourself eye to maw with a bear, there would be a saber trying to sink its teeth or claws into your back. They'd adapted a back-to-back tactic so that no person had to face those odds. Unfortunately, that meant that there were many cases where duos and trios of warriors found themselves surrounded by decaying wildlife. "Do not push, men! Hold your ground!" came Illidan's order.

"Defias!" added VanCleef, "Use guns if you've got 'em, stay back from this! If you don't, well, make better choices in the next life!" His smoke pellets had saved them a few times already, but by his own obscenity filled admission, he only had one left. Illidan would never want to admit it, but VanCleef's evasion made him easily the best fighter of these animals, since not even the cats could keep up with his speed. The issue was, however, that killing blows were few and far between. No one had seen Malfurion yet, so at least the downed troops weren't being raised, not that the unnaturally voracious animals were leaving much to raise.

"VanCleef!" called out Illidan. "I'll bet you a month's worth of lessons that my Unseen can kill more of these beasts than your brigands."

VanCleef let out a hoot. "I bet you most of my men can't spell brigand, and I fail to see how I can teach you to get on my level after only a month, but as you wish!" VanCleef's confidence inspired his men, who fought with renewed vigor. The elves, borderline arrogant as ever, didn't want to be outdone by a human and his random companions.

That being said, all the confidence in the world means little when an undead bear and his zombified cat friends want to eat you. Their losses dropped off significantly, but they were still dying more quickly than they were killing. VanCleef got closer to Illidan in a brief lull, after they managed to kill a pack of nightsabers. "We should consider retreat, Illidan."

"No!" Illidan roared. "The archers would get slaughtered. We must hold these beasts back until we can establish a new position."

"No, my friend. I mean all of us. Maybe inside the gates. None of these men are going to do any good dead and all we're doing is dying."

A fresh onslaught broke his attention from VanCleef, but he called out over the battle. "Start preparing your men. Perhaps you're right."

"Perhaps he isn't," came a voice all-too-familiar to Illidan. A spectral arrow fell from the sky and buried itself in the skull of an undead bear. Illidan smiled broadly at Tyrande.

"Backup has arrived, men! Push these creatures back!" They followed orders, pushing forward. Spears, axes, and arrows found their targets while the infantry used their evasive tactics to keep all eyes on them. As a united front, the otherworldly roar of undead forces of nature died out permanently. The troops let out a battlecry of victory, but Tyrande remained unconvinced.

"Something isn't right. We haven't seen Malfurion."

"Perhaps this was simply a diversion and he's back at the world tree?" suggested VanCleef.

"No," said Tyrande. "Animals were never his best trick. It was nature itself." As if on cue, a boulder soared through the air, landing on and taking out a large portion of their troops. The horizon itself seemed to move with gnarled, blackened treants and ancients stomping through the corrupted woods. Another volley of boulders came, taking out even more of the living troops. "We have to get back to the city," she said.

"No," Illidan retorted, "These were meant to take down city walls. Send the troops back, but you and I should stay and fight. We can buy them time if nothing else."

Tyrande knew what he was suggesting. Some could justifiably see it as suicide, but perhaps he was overconfident as ever. "We have to try. We have to get our people out."

VanCleef sputtered. "And who will watch after you?"

"Our people's lives matter more than ours, Edwin," Tyrande said. "I'm sure you understand that."

"More than you know. Men! Evaporate!"Almost at once, all of VanCleef's men detonated their smoke pellets. He added his at the last moment before Tyrande and Illidan could object. The clouds left a perfect path back to the gates of Draka'mar. "Now run!"

"We must fi—"

"You wanted to buy time, Tyrande. That's what we've done. Now we have to get back to the city and fight anew. This way, no one else has to die."

Suddenly, there was a rush of wind. A great, violent gale formed, clearing out all of the smoke. Thankfully, the troops had all cleared out, but Tyrande, Illidan, and VanCleef were left sitting out in the open. Before them, eyes glowing but somehow distant, stood Malfurion Stormrage. "You fools! You betrayed the wilds! I must restore balance!"

"Malfurion!" Tyrande pled, "You are killing everything! Don't you see the death that surrounds you?"
"Death that you and the Betrayer caused, my love."

Illidan walked to the bear that Tyrande had pinned. The rot on its hide was apparent and foul. "We caused this, brother?"

Malfurion's lips curled in a snarl. "Yes! You struck down a papa bear in the prime of his life! You will pay for this and the other atrocities committed!"

Tyrande looked over at Illidan. "I understand now. It's the Lost King. Everything he does is about death and rot. Malfurion's mind must be broken."

"Then there is no saving him," said VanCleef, drawing his weapons.

"Greetings, human. I hadn't seen you. What do you seek of nature?" Malfurion asked kindheartedly.

"I seek justice for the wrongs committed to it and by it. I seek revenge for my fallen comrades."

"I do sense suffering in you, my friend. Be healed." A column of black light erupted from the ground underneath VanCleef. He let out a scream of agony as blackened ribbons of energy coiled around him. Tyrande had seen Malfurion do this before, but then it had closed wounds. Before their very eyes, VanCleef was rotting. Tyrande rushed forward to break him out of the beam of light Malfurion had created. Malfurion's warm smile was only interrupted by Illidan shoving him back as hard as he could before Illidan went to VanCleef's side. It was clear he didn't have long left.

VanCleef looked up at the two of them, his silken voice now ragged and harsh as his ruined body tried to form words. "Take care of Vanessa. Tell her that her dad died in battle, not like this. Don't let her grow up like me."

Tyrande reached down, gently stroking Edwin's hair. "As a hero? As someone who stands up for those who deserve it? I will make sure she grows up exactly like you."

He snorted, letting out a long series of coughs. Illidan placed a hand on Edwin's chest. His heart was racing. "VanCleef, I do have urgent news for you. You beat me."

What little energy Edwin had left was spent beaming up at Illidan, his hero.

"But you owe me a rematch. Wait for me in the next life, would you?"

"Maybe this time I'll have a few thousand years of training." More laughing and heaving. "Tell Vanessa papa loves…" Illidan knew the sentence wouldn't be finished. VanCleef's heart stopped. Tyrande reached up and took the signature red bandana off of his face, revealing a perfectly chiseled and uncorrupted jawline. She tucked it away, intending to give it to her new adopted daughter.

"That was very foolish, brother!" Malfurion screamed out. "Now feel the wrath of nature!" From the edge of Malfurion's gnarled staff, blackened balls of energy screamed towards Illidan and Tyrande. Illidan raised his glaives and blocked the attacks.

"Have you forgotten what I do to magic, brother? Please, feed me more!" Illidan's predatory, confident grin taunted Malfurion.

"Right you are, Betrayer. Right you are. How's this?" Even before his sentence was over, his voice had started to become a possessed growl. He shifted into the biggest bear Illidan had ever seen. The unholy tainted blue eye glow still emanated from Malfurion, but the rest of the bear was terrifyingly perfect.

"Now that is a problem."

An arrow streaked out towards the bear's flank. "Have you forgotten you're mated to a huntress, my love?" Each time Malfurion moved, Tyrande shot another arrow into his flank or a paw. "Remember when we first met, what you told me? 'Unbeatable apart, unstoppable together.' Perhaps your brother simply needed a reminder." Illidan advanced on the bear, and every time it reared up, Tyrande shot again, which gave Illidan free reign over hand-to-hand combat, which left Malfurion a bleeding and quickly balding bear. It was like a training exercise for Illidan and Tyrande.

But then it went wrong. Malfurion roared loudly, causing both of the elves to stumble back. That bought him long enough to shift back to his elven form and patch himself up with the wave of his hand. Before they could recover, he shifted again into the form of a great stag. Tyrande could still fire off arrows, but the shots were less controlled. Worse, he was now much faster than either of them. Worse still, he had horns bigger than both of them combined and he certainly knew how to use them. He'd run and charge, sweeping his head back and forth. Even glancing blows opened significant wounds on them. Just as they thought they got the rhythm down to evade him, he stomped on the ground with such force that it knocked them both up. Only then did Malfurion's target become clear: he caught Illidan on his horns, impaling one of his legs on them and started thrashing about. Tyrande called out, shooting her bow wildly. She scored hit after hit, but none mattered until she finally scored a direct hit on one of the stag's back legs, causing it to stumble. Tyrande ran forward and leapt, pulling Illidan free and starting to pour healing magic into his wounds.

Malfurion shifted back again, laughing all the while. "Unstoppable and unbeatable? Neither, my love."

Tyrande looked up at him. "It has been millennia since you were allowed to call me that."

"It doesn't have to be. We can mend this land together, free it from the corruption the orcs and the Betrayer have wrought."

"You mind is broken, Malfurion!" she screamed. "Your allies in nature, as you call them, are all dead, rotting, and yet walking. They are abominations brought to life by your horrible king and maintained by you! Not to mention what you did to our people!"

Malfurion looked genuinely confused. "No, I know the king of which you speak, but I am undoing his damage. You may not like me or my methods, my love, but without me, the world around him would rot! Why, have you not seen the guardians coming to us even now?"
Unfortunately, she had already seen them. The ancients and treants were all full of rotting wood, bugs and their larvae, and breaking apart with every step. "You are broken, Malfurion. It would be more kind to put you down than to let you live." She stood, preparing her bow.

"And who will be doing that? You with your little toy weapon?"

She had delayed long enough. The Unseen lurking in the forest descended on him, plunging their glaives into his body one after another. Three of them ripped and tore at him unopposed, until suddenly the forest itself came to his defense. The trees sprouted vines which immediately rotted to a disgusting, mushy black and wrapped them up. It took him a moment to get to his feet, but when he did, Tyrande started firing at him once again. He snarled at her and a vine quickly wrapped around her neck, tightening quickly. There were three loud pops as the Unseen lost their lives, their necks being snapped.

"We… We could have done this together, Tyrande…" said Malfurion, voice quaking with effort, "I do not wish to kill you."

"And you won't have the chance!" Illidan jumped up and cut the vine, freeing Tyrande. He rushed forward at Malfurion, attacking furiously. Malfurion raised his hand and a great shield made of rotting leaves blocked every single one of Illidan's attacks. The same column of light that claimed VanCleef started to form around Illidan. He abandoned his armed attack and simply kicked Malfurion in the gut, making a quick retreat to Tyrande.

"This may be a good time to do that trick you used to do, Illidan," she quietly suggested.

It took him a moment, but he violently shook his head. "No! Never! I… I am not the Betrayer any longer."

"And you won't be even if you do that! I don't want to be too cold here, my love, but you used to have the capability to set yourself on fire and we're about to fight a great army of rotting trees. That may be just a bit useful!"

He had hoped he could delay that fight a while longer, but Malfurion had stumbled back to the moving treeline. The treants were closing in on them. "You said yourself they're rotting. Let's just do it the old fashioned way."

"You can just—"
"No!" he roared. "I don't like who that makes me. I don't like feeling that power. It makes me want to never feel anything else. Not even you, Tyrande." His blindfolded eyes rested on her. He gave a slight shudder before getting up. "We have to try." Illidan took off before she could protest. His plan wasn't entirely wrong—the treants fell in one swipe from his blades since they were mostly rotten. The issue was that that lead to them dealing with half-trees that weren't entirely struck down. Tyrande stepped in then, empowering her arrows. The trees burst into brilliant white flame and scattered in the wind. Only together could they defeat the treants, and despite Malfurion's best attempts to stop them and keep his allies moving, they were left face to face with the fallen archdruid once again.

"You are out of tricks, brother," Illidan taunted.

"Not quite." Malfurion stepped slightly off to the side and almost instantly, a huge rock flew through the air, crushing Illidan as it had their comrades in arms not long ago.

"Illidan!" shouted Tyrande, going to his side. She was saying "no, no, no" over and over and she tried get him to focus on her.

Another rock landed by her. "Stop!" shouted Malfurion. "She can still be saved." Tyrande could hear the ground underneath Malfurion crunch as he stepped near her.

Illidan coughed lightly. Fel green energy crackled behind his blindfold. "I don't…"

"Don't speak, my love," Tyrande said through tears. "Just be with me until the goddess steals you from me."

"Kiss me so that I may know peace," he implored her. She obliged, gently leaning down and kissing him on the lips as her tears fell on his face.

"Now… I am complete…" There were a few more green sparks from behind his blindfold, but his head fell back. Tyrande let out one more great cry of furious grief before turning her tear stained glare to Malfurion.

"There's no one left in our way, my love. Help me save this land." Malfurion extended his hand to her. She reached down and grabbed Illidan's blades. They were lighter than she imagined. This did not please Malfurion. "You never knew when to keep your place, Tyrande. I will not enjoy killing you."

"I wish I could agree with you, Malfurion," she said in a whisper. Just like that, she was on him. He brought up the leaf shield that had stopped Illidan, but empowering the blades with the energy of the goddess helped her tear it aside and dig into his flesh. He tried to entangle her in overgrowth, but she was too fast. When he tried to shift, she'd only press the attack faster. "You have taken my best friend. You have taken my love. You have taken my people," she said, slashing at his legs and making him fall to the ground. "But you will never, ever take my hope. You got close, but I will always be here to fight monsters like you." She pressed Illidan's blades to his chest and began to press.

"Monsters like me? You and your betrayer are the only monsters. I will contain nature no longer." Rocks fell through the sky around them. The ground rumbled as the ancients came forward in an awe-inspiring sprint. "They will reclaim their land from you. Goddess guide you, my love." Malfurion actually looked sad as the ancients closed around him.

"That she does. Goddess! Your humble servant requests aid one final time! Help me end this conflict and protect this land!" The night became pitch black. Great balls of white light began falling from the sky… and each one missed the ancients. Not one hit any of her enemies. The darkness went away. Tyrande stood in disbelief. "She has abandoned me." The ancients stood around her, boxing her in.

"What was that about not taking your hope, Tyrande?" Malfurion said mockingly. "Enshu-falah-nah, my love." He leveled his staff at her. For a moment, energy gathered at the end of it. Tyrande closed her eyes, not willing to look this death in the face. She could hear it get launched. But she never felt anything. When she opened her eyes, it was still black outside of a few dots of light filtering in through black, leathery wings.

"You will not mock my wife, brother." Illidan's voice was twisted by fel magic, but that was him. Tyrande's heart filled with joy and the will to fight once again. She looked behind her and saw that the rock that had pinned him was shattered with scorch marks on each of the fragments. The goddess knew exactly what she was doing, it turns out. Illidan bent down and took up his glaives, which began to twist and contort with fel energy. Tyrande placed her hands on them, imbuing them with the same arcane magic she had used. "Thank you, my love," Illidan said as gently as he could muster. Tyrande beamed and stepped back. With a flex of rippling muscle, Illidan's aura became one of fire. He took to felling the ancients one by one, which left Tyrande free to finish what she had started with Malfurion.

"It doesn't matter what the Betrayer does!" he exclaimed, "I will not let either of you live and you cannot best me, Tyrande!"

"I can't? I suppose that's my blood on the ground around you?" Malfurion had been greatly wounded in their battle. He began to close the wounds, but that gave Tyrande all she needed to ready her bow and fire an arrow through his foot, pinning him to the ground. The other foot got a matching arrow. He began to shift back into the monstrous bear, but she was too close and simply punched him square in the neck. His body lurched, but the arrows just made the wounds grow more severe as he couldn't move. The only answer was flight. A brilliant flash went out from his staff, distracting Tyrande enough to let him shift into a great bird.

Tyrande wasn't his only issue. Before he could get above the trees, one of Illidan's blades pierced through the air and, unfortunately for Malfurion, through one of his wings. He came crashing back to the ground with a thud. He shifted back into his normal self, trying to stand desperately on two injured feet and a crippled arm. Tyrande walked to him and placed her foot on the center of his chest. "Someone must protect the wilds, Tyrande!"

"That's exactly what I'm doing. Find your peace, true Betrayer." She aimed an arrow at his head and released it. The triumphant cries from the sealed gates of Draka'mar told her what she already knew: this nightmare was over.

Part 6: The Frozen Branches of Unmaking

Arthas was always proud of his troops, but he rarely had a visual reason to. As the combined forces of the Alliance and Horde took out over the sea, he couldn't help but grin grimly. Aboard his flagship, The Lion's Roar, and surrounded by his full naval and ground forces, even the slowest member of his infantry could count that the Horde came jam packed on six ships, whereas the Alliance set sail with twenty and that wasn't all of them. Should Garrosh survive this battle and try anything stupid, Arthas would send his navy to Draka'mar and wipe them out. Not that he could entertain such thoughts with certain death looming quite literally ahead of them, as they landed at the docks of the frozen world tree. They lost several dozen troops just trying to get these docks safe enough to land their army on, but it appears they missed a spot: a large grouping of Naga were off to the side, oddly unarmed. Arthas took his time getting off of the boat and went right to them. "We have bigger problems than you, sea dwellers."

"And we have bigger problemssss than you, ssssoftskin," replied the sea witch at the front of them. "Our queen wishessss to ssssee thissss conflict through. We are ordered to assisssst the living."

Arthas narrowed his eyes. "Why should we trust you?"

"You sssshouldn't, as we do not trusssst you. Ssssimply trusssst that we do not have any love for the Lich King. The rootssss of hissss domain threaten our queen. Thissss will not sssstand."

"Very well. Guard the shore with the big ones, we'll take the smaller ones up with us. Do you still do that lightning thing?"

The naga looked rather unimpressed with Arthas' vocabulary. "Remarkably well."

"We can use that. If I need you, who do I call?"

"Vasssshj. But do not call for me. I do not take orderssss from any human." She turned to address her people, clearly done with Arthas.

"Is there a reason you are letting a race who will obviously stab us in the backs live, human?" Garrosh demanded.

"Yes, because one war is enough. I would have assumed your father would've taught you that after dealing with both us and demons."

"You will not talk about my father again unless you wish to join your dear friend's army."

"You've got to calm down, man," Arthas said pleadingly. "I get that's the whole orc thing and you're their leader, but not everything has to be a fight. I'm letting them live because I'm about to go to war against my best friend while allied with orcs, elves, and all sorts of other things and life is a bit weird right now. I brought up your father because he was noble and intelligent along with being bloodthirsty. Any true warrior could stand to learn from him."

Garrosh tried desperately to think of something snide to say, but couldn't come up with anything. "My Horde will lead the charge, then Dranosh and the mounted division. If we haven't triumphed by then, I suppose you could send the rest of your people in."

"Or if we want to use a plan that will actually work, we'll break everyone up into their already assigned divisions and take the city one sector at a time, since that's what we've been intending on doing for the last several weeks. I get it, okay? You don't want to be here with a human. I don't want to be here with an orc. So let's get this done and return to wanting to kill each other."

Garrosh snorted. "Fine. But to be fair, I do still want to kill you. My father taught me to ignore such things when I have to." Garrosh's grin was as disingenuous as Arthas had ever seen, but he would take it. Now, of course, came the hard part of the campaign: How were they supposed to get to the top of a massive tree? The teleporter that Tyrande had told them about was clearly no longer working. Well, it was, it just was pouring out a rather steady stream of rotting troops and sending them to their master. That was the most unsettling thing to Arthas—they could clearly see him and the others, but they didn't act, react, or acknowledge them in the slightest. Were they returning to Varian and informing him of what they saw? Or did he already know? Of course he did.

"Oi! Anyone gonna help me?" Muradin stumbled off of the boat, whistles on thin pieces of twine dangling from all over his armor. Arthas went over to him, taking a large portion of the burden. "This'll get us up there, lad! Our scouts were lookin' fer more stray gnomes and they took a wrong turn and ended up in the highlands and found the Wildhammer boys!"
"Who?"

Muradin scrunched up his face. "Tha's not important. I'm sayin' we got rides to tha top o'tha tree, lad! If ya don't think they mind sharin', we can get most everyone up in one go and maybe even take down some of his dead bird men on the way up!"

Arthas took one of the whistles, smiling like a child. "Flight? You're giving us the gift of flight? C-can we keep it when we're done?"

"Ahh, of course, lad," Muradin said gently, almost fatherly, "Once ya give someone the gift of flight, it'd be cruel ta take it away from 'em. So just hop on and let the great beasties do the rest."

"Everyone, over to the boats! Pair up and get a whistle from Muradin then fly up. We'll land next to the transporter and try to reclaim it from the dark magic that corrupted it. Vashj, come with me." The naga witch wasn't happy with being ordered by a human, but there wasn't much she could do to climb a gigantic tree without his help. Arthas blew into the whistle and a few seconds later, a gryphon flew down from a large cloud of them that were circling above the ships. Vashj slithered up on the beast, wrapping her tail around it's body. It squawked a protest, so she let up a bit. Arthas slid on in front of her. "If you see anything flying, you shoot it with that bow or you zap it with your magic. Do not hesitate." He thought about that order for a moment. "If you see anything flying that isn't definitely on our side."

"Thank you for the clarification," she said impatiently. They waited until they had a few dozen gryphons then finally took off. It would only be a few minutes to the top of the tree. Arthas felt an immense sense of relief when not one druid of the plague was in the air with them.

Then with a loud popping sound, his relief disappeared. The world tree itself was sprouting with corrupt white pustules that were erupting in a burst of frozen thorns. A few gryphons and their riders were already plummeting to the ground before there was time to react. "Evasive maneuvers! Archers, try to pop them before we get to them!" The gryphons were as war hardened as any of the soldiers they were transporting, so even when their fellow beasts fell, they flew on. He couldn't tell how accurate any of the shooters were. Not because they were missing, of course, but because Vashj was letting out entire volleys of arrows that were popping several of the orbs at once. Arthas dared to look behind him, and unfortunately, as much help as that was for he and Vashj, the orbs would reappear before too long and pop again. The other archers had nowhere near her precision, but most of the riders were able to make it to the top of the tree. Still, none of Varian's troops (if they could be called that) reacted to them. When the last one landed, it was a very surly dwarf who spoke as if he was smarter than everyone else in the room. "Alrigh', give 'em back."

Arthas held his whistle close to his chest. "But Muradin said we could keep them!"

"Nope. Hand 'em over." The dwarf grabbed the whistle out of his hand. He took a mocking tone as he continued. "Ahh, but the world is so beautiful, lad! Ta experience it, ya truly have ta stay on the ground! Or somethin' like that."

Garrosh was also upset about having to give his whistle back. "On who's authority can you do this?"

"Easy now, biggin'," the dwarf said reassuringly, "The decision was made by a collective of us who think it's in your best interest ta … well, do what we tell ya fer no real reason." With one fast swipe of Garrosh's whistle, the dwarf disappeared. Arthas had a feeling they'd never see him again.

Muradin gave him a pat on the shoulder. "It's alright, lad. Ol' Wildhammer was always a bit surly and didn't want humans on his birds to begin with."

Arthas was done pouting. "Right, meet with your division leaders and start heading out. The naga are with us, so treat them like a long, snake-human and don't let them die. We don't know where his throne is, but we assume it's either at the big hollowed out oak or the Temple of the Moon so when you're done with your section, move on to the next nearest one and we'll group up where their bank used to be and move to the oak and the temple together. Speaking of: Goblins, even though we're meeting up at a bank, I would thank you kindly to leave the Kaldorei gold alone. I think they've suffered enough, don't you?" There was a slight grumbling amongst the troops, but it seemed to be a grumbling of agreement. "Don't let them touch you and remember—stay off of the roads and kill the healers first. I've been telling that to our troops for decades and they never get it, so if you're going to pick a day to get it, now would be the time. Any questions?" He was met with silence. "Good. Report to Muradin, Garrosh, Dranosh, Vashj— who will be in charge of the division of her choosing— or myself." They continued to look at him expectantly. "That's it." The stares continued. "Look, I'm a warrior like the rest of you. I'm really tired of making speeches. If you want something inspiring to hear, think of it like this: never in our history have our armies truly merged. You are all making steps forward to secure futures for yourselves and your families. You are ignoring hate for peace. If I don't live to thank you again, well… thank you." He picked up his mace. "Now let's take this city back!" The normal cheers were mixed with a loud cry of "Lok'tar Ogar!" Though he was never truly afraid of the orcs, he was happy that those cries were aimed at someone else for once.

Much to the objections of his remaining advisors, Arthas was in charge of a large squad of infantry fighters. Garrosh was utterly unwilling to commit more than one member of the Horde to a unit that the human king was in charge of, and he was a big one. "Want… kill… elf…", he said.. Humans used to call orcs like this berserkers because they could best be described as masses of muscle controlled by a brain that only knew how to kill things. This one, as he recalled, had the charming name of Eyeeater the Noble .

"And you will! Come, Eyeeater, take up your weapon." Arthas grabbed a rather large axe and held it out. Eyeeater didn't move.

"Eyeeater… noble…" he insisted.

"Oh, of course, your grace. Come take your weapon, Eyeeater the Noble."

"Bet… ter…" That got the orc moving. He grabbed a hold of his axe and cast his chest armor and helmet aside, holding his chest-sized hand out for Arthas.

"Oh, right. I had a few alterations made for you…" Arthas dug around in the equipment bag left for him and his troops and found the items: a fine silk top hat and a red tie. "I had a chin strap put on the hat so it won't tumble off and the tie now has a bunch of little eyeballs on it so we know it's yours."

Eyeeater took the hat and put it on, glowering at Arthas. He jerked his head around a bit to make sure the hat wouldn't tumble off and it didn't. "Squishy king… good." He took the tie as well and walked off.

"Now then," Arthas began to his unit, "The Wildhammers were kind enough to fly around on the gryphons they said we could keep yes I'm still bitter and they determined that the area where the druids used to train, the Cenarion Enclave, is the most active. Naturally, that's exactly where we'll be headed. Since they're druids, some of them will be able to shapeshift, some will be healers, and some will shoot, uh, nature at you. So just like I said, kill the healers first, then work on the rest." There were murmurs of agreement, mostly. "Then what are we waiting for? For Lordaeron!"

They stormed up to the Cenarion Enclave. Arthas had never been here, but before it was clearly lush, full of life, and centered around a large tree (much like seemingly everything else elves did). This version was a stark black and white—frostbite and icicles on top of rotting wood. The druids continued moving about, toxic clouds following in their wake. Even when his troops started killing them, they didn't stop or fight back. They just mindless started trying to mend the wounds of their fallen. This was more of a slaughter than a battle. "Keep… just keep going! Kill them all!" Once Arthas spoke, the battle changed. The druids, one by one, no matter if they were standing or cleaved, locked their tainted eyes on him and whispiered "You…" From the carrying sound of the wind, he had the feeling every voice in Darnassus had just whispered his name and it was not a good feeling. The druids started moving en masse towards him, flying, crawling, running, charging, whatever they could do to move.

"SQUISHY KING NO TALK!"

Arthas nodded. Eyeeater the Noble had a very good point. He had attempted to earn his name, but perhaps he had decided that rotting druids weren't the best cut of meat. Arthas readied his hammer and steeled his nerves for the oncoming onslaught. First, it was arrows and tiny black plants all around him. Then rotting bears, balding hawks, and skeletal cats. The trees themselves shivered to life, launching frosted, razor sharp leaves at the allied forces. The first volley alone wiped out at least a quarter of Arthas' troops. "Regroup! Don't stand in the leaves or arrows or… the bad. Don't stand in the bad! We take this tree and we move on!" Unfortunately, every word he said drove everything around him into a bigger frenzy. The leaves in the air changed direction and flew right at him, opening up several scratches on his face and marring his armor.

"SQUISHY…" Eyeeater said, grabbing a druid by the foot and hurling him through the air, "KING…" another one, slammed onto the ground, "NO…" a rotting cat sunk its teeth into his arm, which caused him to flail about, "TAAAALK!"

Arthas threw his arms up. "You will lissssten to me, ssssoftskins," Vashj called out. Arthas shook his head, gesturing at Muradin. The dwarf began to speak, then Vashj pointed at one of the gales of leaves. Forked lightning shot from the end of her hand, hitting the leaves and following the trail of the attack back to the tree, which exploded in a shower of splinters. Arthas thought this over a moment, then pointed at Vashj and nodded. "Fire issss the bane of nature and the dead. Give it to them and burn them to assssh."

"Jus' where d'ya think we're gonna get that, lass? …lass, I think, anyway," Muradin chimed in.

"Orcssss," she suggested. "They sssset fire to all they conquer, do they not?" Arthas turned his gaze to Dranosh Saurfang. He and all of his wolfriders did often carry jingling jars of some sort along their belts. Arthas snapped his fingers and gestured at Dranosh who hurried over on wolfback.

"Yes, your majesty?" He still cast a suspicious look at Vashj.

"Use yer damnable concoctions on the elves and the trees and burn 'em down," Muradin said as a substitute.

"With all due respect to his majesty and his general, perhaps this plan was suggested by the witch in an effort to bring this entire realm down? We are on a large tree and our fire is made to leave only ash of even stone and mortar, let alone rotting wood."

"No harm must come to this worthlesssss twig, orc. Our queen retains her immortal beauty only so long as thissss remainssss. Were I here on my own, your concernssss would be valid. But fortunately for you, I live to sssserve my queen. You burn, my ssssisterssss and I will control the blaze. We are of the sea, after all." She and the other naga gathered around. "Ride, orc." He looked to Arthas for assurance. Arthas nodded. Dranosh barked out orders to the orcish riders, though apparently many of the humans in the unit had made their own fiery vials.

Arthas leaned down to Muradin, whispering as quietly as he could. "Get everyone away from the enclave." Even at a whisper, the leaves changed direction at him.

Muradin sighed. "Squishy king no talk, lad. I'll get everyone goin'. Ya heard him, lads! … Or no, you probably didn't. Get outta the orcs way unless ya want to be set on fire!" The troops were already being ushered away by the riders and the flames leaping up ahead of them. Many of the druids in the various forms were burning, but none were reacting. They just kept the same insane look aimed at Arthas and tried to get to him, even as their bodies fell into piles of smoldering meat and ash. The naga stayed true to their words and fired streams of water at the fire when it was doing that thing fire does and going wherever it wanted. With their combined efforts, the entire Cenarion Enclave was kindling within a few hours. When the last branch fell, the troops let out a loud triumphant cry. Arthas joined in without thinking. Almost immediately, everyone grew silent. No leaves shot out at him. The wind didn't change. There was the steady stream of undead minions running at them from all across the city, so that much hadn't changed. Arthas cheered even louder, finally able to talk.

But then reality came back. "Alright, alright, settle down," he called out. "We've got a lot more of the city left to purge." He shuddered—that was a poor choice of words. Most of the human troops seemed to cower, though some now glared at him. He recognized patches on their armor as the coat of arms of Stratholme. "I know what I've done. I know who I was. I have not been that man in a long time, but I know he's still in me. Let me tell you this: I'm glad. A time like this isn't meant for the king who gives speeches and builds bridges. A time like this is meant for a king who knows how to use a weapon to deliver death to his enemies. We are going to take our arms, we're going to take our shields, we're going to take our brothers and sisters and allies and we are going to give this city back to its inhabitants and keep this world safe for our children!" That was the easiest way to unite the Alliance and Horde on their march forward. He only had to remind them that this was to ensure that their children had a world to grow up in. For that matter, many of the naga cheered in their unnerving, hissing way. Arthas had meant every word: Uther and Jaina had brought out the best in him, but he still had a "worst in him" deep down. He was made to repent for his actions because of his Northrend expedition, but with the many years of reflection, he realized he didn't regret a single thing about Stratholme. If he had had more time or more resources or more troops, maybe he could've evacuated the citizens, but then what if they were already infected? That would require ore troops, more resources, and now medics. It would've taken weeks to get them in place and it turned out that, even though his decision wasn't well received, he was right. He killed dozens to save thousands. He burned an entire city so that countless others could continue to thrive. A part of him always resented the judgment cast on him, but he used it to make himself more confident and well-informed in his actions now.

It was his confident and well-informed opinion that it was time to let his weapon do all the talking for him. "Come then, soldiers of the lost king," he yelled, "You want my blood? Come take it from me." He shoved his way to the front, fully aware that now everyone would have to work doubly hard to protect him when he was at the front, but it became obvious as he crushed the first two skulls of the undead elves near him that he could definitely still carry his own weight and then some. The Light magic he could use seared decaying flesh off of far off enemies while golden shackles stopped others in their tracks until he or the others could deal with them more directly. As he had hoped, his path of destruction brought out the competition in Garrosh and the orcs.

"Honor your ancestors by not letting these humans outshine our conquest! FOR THE HORDE!" he screamed. His borrowed Warsong axe was nowhere near as well-crafted as Gorehowl, but in his hands, it was simply lethal. Arthas and the Alliance were used to felling an enemy with a controlled, precision attack and moving on. The Horde was trained to claim territory and strike fear in their enemies. Undead heads rolled, torsos were cleaved in half—sometimes in both directions—and spears pinned their foes to their ground through the heart. The path through the city was almost amusing to see, with one side a fairly neat, uniform trail of bodies and the other nightmare fuel for anyone not used to seeing the Horde's brutality.

"Oi!" called out Muradin, gesturing at the bridge leading up to the temple. "I got a trick for ya." He held up an odd gnomish gizmo, all wheels and interlocking parts.

"Is that going to blow up? Be honest, Muradin," Arthas said.

"Of course not, lad! …shouldn't think so." He put the apparatus down and waited. "Oh! That's right. Do some of your light stuff, lad." Arthas perked a brow then tried a simple healing spell.

"MAGICAL SIGNATURE… RECOGNIZED. PORTAL OPENING IN 10 SECONDS. DID I SAY SECONDS? I MEANT MINUTES. SORRY. MACHINES DO NOT KNOW HOW TIME WORKS BECAUSE WE DO NOT DIE. UNLIKE HUMANOIDS. HA HA HA. YOU WILL DIE SOMEDAY AND I WILL CONTINUE MAKING PORTALS. HA HA HA. I'M LONELY."

"Blasted gnomes…" Muradin said, shaking his head. "Well, at least we have a bit of calm, don't we?"

"TINY HAIRY MAN CURSE US BY SPEAKING!" came the always eloquent Eyeeater's feedback.

"So it would seem," agreed Arthas, half-joking. "I don't know how much further we can spread our forces. We're already all over the map and we have so much more left to do. Is this portal entirely necessary?" There was a loud rumbling. The bridge broke away behind them and in front of them, dropping countless dozens of the armies dropping into the water. Arthas always thought it was a reflecting pool, but the troops never came up. In fact, the water started churning. The naga started hissing in loud, cacophonous unison.

"Treachery?!" Muradin accused/asked.

Vashj shook her head, a look of genuine fear in her oversized eyes. "If only it were that ssssimple…" She turned around, barking out orders to her followers in her language. They hesitated, but they dove into the water. "Thingssss are turning dire, but we will aid you for our queen. Sssstay alive long enough to give us a chance to help you." She and the other witches formed a circle around the water, channeling a spell in an unbroken ring. There was more rumbling.

"WARNING! WARNING! STABLIZERS NOT PROPERLY INSTALLED. CEASE SEVERE GROUND MOVEMENT OR PORTAL WILL NOT MATERIALIZE. PLEASE HELP ME. OR BE MY FRIEND. BOTH WOULD BE ACCEPTABLE AS WELL."

Arthas turned to advise the remaining troops, but before he could, the water began to take form. A huge being loomed dozens of feet over them, a look of tormented anguish on its "face". Unhindered naga and struggling troops swam about it. "Prioritize air to the ssssoft onessss! Do not let our alliessss die!" Just like that, the swarming naga started forming bubbles in the formed water and pushing them over the mouths of the allied forces.

Stepping forward, Arthas tried to speak again. "What torments you, great one? I can see the pain on your face from here!"

It began to rumble a response, making a sighing whine come from the gnomish device. "The elements make pacts with mortals. We are not meant to serve. Yet one of the strongest elementalists we have known forces our servitude now. I cannot free your friends from my waters, but I am resisting his will."

"And what is that?"

"The death of all of you," it replied, matter-of-factly.

"We are in debt for your dedication to that, great one. We thank you. But what is the rumbling if not you?"

"Oh," it replied, sounding further pained, "I will not fight you. But my brother will." The rumbling came to full force, finishing with a huge row of spikes around all of them. There would be no escape. Suddenly, a mountain burst from the ground, only it wasn't a mountain, it was a giant made of brown earth, grey stone, and white frost. Spikes lined its shoulders, each one with one or several fallen combatants impaled on it.

"TREMBLE AS YOU REAP WHAT YOU HAVE SOWN, MORTALS! YOU HAVE DEFILED THE EARTH AND ALLOWED ONE AMONG YOU TO CORRUPT IT WITH HIS INFLUENCE."

"He does not act for us, ancient one!" Arthas implored, "We are here to stop him, in fact! With your aid, we can be done and gone even quicker!"

"SIIIIIILEEEEENCE! IF IT WAS NOT HIM, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN ONE OF YOU. WE HAVE SEEN THE RISE AND FALL OF YOUR CIVILIZATIONS AND WHAT YOU DO TO THE WORLD IN WHICH YOU LIVE. YOU ARE A DISEASE. WE ARE THE CURE." The earth amalgamation started running towards them, each step the new biggest earthquake any of them had felt. Muradin grabbed on to the gnomish contraption, which made a happy cooing sound.

"Why do all the elementals hafta yell?" he asked, though he was staring down certain death.

"Are you hungover again, Muradin?" Arthas asked, amused.

"That has nothin' to do with how loud he is, lad."

"That it doesn't," Arthas agreed, readying his weapon. "Don't get under its feet! Just stay back as much as you can! Everyone else, make sure this portal opens!" Arthas gave him a confident smile and readied his weapon. But for all the steeling and ignoring of intense terror he was doing, the elementals suddenly stopped. The naga and drowning allies were free. The walking mountain crumbled into rubble.

"That was nothing…" came a gruff whisper that was somehow loud enough for everyone to hear it.

"That is the voice of a traitor!" Garrosh yelled.

"Da powah we foun', mon, oh it be biggah den ya t'ink!" the next voice said.

"And that of a weaking," Garrosh snarled.

"Stay your tongue, fool, unless you wish choke on it," said another voice.

"Shandris Feathermoon? I'd know that voice anywhere. That means…" Arthas trailed off.

"Come. Meet your end." One final voice. Varian. An ice bridge formed over the waterway. The army—a good portion of it still catching their breath—started moving slowly, not trusting it. But they crossed without incident, Garrosh, Vashj, Muradin, and Arthas at the lead. Walking up to them at the same pace were four pale people with glowing blue eyes: Thrall, the seer that had warned Arthas about Varian; a troll that Garrosh has identified as Vol'jin, who was dancing in place and laughing to himself; Shandris Feathermoon, the same fire burning in her icy eyes; and at their center, the Lost King himself. He had changed his appearance, a bit—his armor was now encased in sections of blue ice that glistened in the eerie light of the temple. The crown around his head remained unchanged, as did the look of contempt on his face. "Hello, old friend."

"I have come for my—" Garrosh began.

"Silence!" A lair of frosty mist descended on Garrosh. "The civilized ones are talking, orc. Have you come to surrender?"

Arthas snorted. "Yes, people always mobilize a massive army and reduce parts of a city to ash to surrender."

Varian let out a cold, mirthless laugh. "You burned down a home to many elves. Elves. Why should I or any human care what happens to them? I was simply offering you the chance to surrender your lives before we take your souls instead."

"It doesn't have to be like this, Varian!" Arthas yelled, pleading. "No one has to die here today! You can just go back to Northrend and give this city back to the elves. We'll give you a swift trial. We'll.. we'll give you help."

"Your lies may work on the simple, Arthas, but I have seen Lordaeron's justice myself. I have dealt it. The only help you're offering me is at the end of an executioner's blade. But you find yourself at the wrong side of the gallows. Face my champions, then maybe I'll allow you the honor of a death at the hands of a human." He turned and walked away. The mist around Garrosh faded. Thrall, Vol'jin, and Shandris stepped forward, all grinning and walking in eerie unison. The shards of earth rumbled back to life and the mournful water began taking shape again.

"Sssissstersss… you know what to do. Human," Vashj said, turning her intense glare at Arthas, "Do not fail." The sea witches reformed their containment circle, but this time the overly apologetic water spirit began fighting back, clearly against its will. With its arms bound, Arthas looked on in horror as the elemental's mouth gaped open and tried to swallow the line of naga, one by one. It would be no issue, but the naga seemed stuck in the water, as if it was something solid.

Arthas pointed at the trapped, panic stricken naga. "Trolls! Get your spears in that elemental—not too deep—and keep those naga on dry land!" Garrosh relayed the order. A volley of spears entered the elemental, just deep enough for the naga to grab a few of the shafts and get pulled to safety. The earth elemental, meanwhile, rumbled forward. "Mounted squad! Do what you do best. Keep him busy and don't let him near you!" Every soldier that was near the elemental got swatted, stomped, and splattered, but his large, clumsy, earthen hands couldn't grab on to the horses or wolves. "Everyone else, focus your attack on the seer! We can deal with a ranger and a troll, but the shaman needs to go down." Unfortunately, only two of the elements were accounted for. Thrall ran and evaded most attacks, his feet aided by the wind, sometimes even lifted up off the ground. He fought unarmed, but when he swung his hands, great fists of lava followed his motions, searing the bare flesh of the unarmored and seemingly cooking the plate-clad soldiers. Bowmen and spear hurlers managed to stop his frantic pace of evasion and destruction, and every time his battle momentum ceased, the army caught up to him and scored important hits. Tectonic plated armor popped up on his vulnerable spots, but over time, they wore it off to score direct hits on the armor and flesh below.

"I WILL NOT BE IGNORED!" Shandris' fury filled voice boomed over the sounds of battle. She fell back to the shadows, completely disappearing. When she reappeared again, it was never for more than a second, and in that time, she'd use her glaive-bow hybrid weapon to strike down or launch an arrow through one of the backline fighters. Arthas gathered his will, and once she appeared again, golden chains anchored her to the ground. She tried to retreat again, unsuccessfully. "You think this will stop me?" She started unleashing volley after volley of arrows, each one empowered with either arcane or shadow energy. The troops hit by the arcane burst into purple flame, while those in the darkness seemed to be grasped by shadowy claws that tried to pull them into the ground.

Garrosh stayed low to the ground and started advancing on her. "Her anger blinds her. Go where she isn't shooting," he said quietly. The troops passed the order along, slowly creeping up to her in increasing numbers. Once they finally reached, her a different shield encapsulated her—a large, dark bubble.

"Ya don' t'ink I jus' be standin' aroun', do ya?" Vol'jin taunted as he danced around. The spirits had enshrouded Thrall and Shandris in an impenetrable bubble, but he was completely vulnerable.

"Get the troll!" Arthas called out. The armies converged on Vol'jin. The tectonic plating Thrall had used so effectively appeared to protect him, but under the force of both armies, it broke away in no time. Once they broke through, he took a few good shots before the magical bubble left his allies and went back over him.

Shandris fell to her knees. "I… this isn't right. You humans are my allies… and we were training with the trolls… NO. NO! I WILL END YOU FOR DESECRATING MY HOME!"

Arthas hesitated. "She's fighting him!"

"What does that mean?" Garrosh asked, catching his breath.

"I… I don't know," Arthas admitted. "It means whatever we're doing is working. Stick to the plan!" The allied forces were all too willing to do that.

Unfortunately, their enemies were not. Shandris sheathed her arrows and wielded her weapon as a rather long sword. Thrall channeled a large bolt of lightning to the water elemental. It let out an unworldly scream of agony. It continued trying to fight, but every time it struggled, water cascaded off of it and created horrible spreading spots of electrified water. One unfortunate troll didn't move in time and displayed the deadly force of the attack, as they twitched and convulsed, even long after they died. Thrall then turned his attention to Shandris, trying to close her wounds and protect the exposed skin she had with layers of earth. The forces turned their attention to him, and though many bridged the gap, many more fell as Shandris dashed across the battlefield, slashing and flaying the fleeing troops. Pillars of lava rose around Thrall, picking off the slower, more heavily armored troops, but it wasn't enough to stop the full onslaught.

That, naturally, is when the impenetrable bubble returned, but they almost knew it was coming ahead of time. They all swarmed Vol'jin without a word being uttered. His dancing became a stumble until he was down on his knees. "Press on, men! Finish him!"

"Waaaaait!" The portal generator in Muradin's hands had completed the spell. Out of it, very clearly near the end of her pregnancy, was Jaina Proudmoore. "Arthas, wait!"

"Treachery from your wife, human?" Garrosh snarled.

"Jaina, we're about to—"

"—kill someone we can save! There's a cure!"

That made even Garrosh stop. "Speak your piece, human."

"Varian's magic is not strong. His greatest creations came from corrupting other, stronger magic and from that damnable blade.. The druids were Malfurion. The Sentinels were because of their link and proximity to the world tree. Thrall was weak—"

"As always," Garrosh added.

Jaina frowned. "Thrall was weak from battle and emotionally drained. Vol'jin and Shandris had been drinking heavily, according to Tyrande's reports of that evening. If you can beat them without killing them, then let our mages get to their minds, I think we can save them."
"Wait. You think?" Arthas demanded. "Jaina, this war is almost over, one way or another. Killing these three, though a tragedy, will swing the tides in our favor."

"But bringing them alive to our side will end this, Arthas. Is the risk not worth it?"

"Why take the risk, lad? Look, Shandris is a fine warrior, and I'm sure a troll and an orc have their uses, but I've seen too many cities fall. If we can just end this, we should, lad," Muradin offered.

"The weakling Thrall owes the orcs a debt for his treachery. Exile was too easy. If you can give him back to us, we will agree to release Shandris Feathermoon to the Alliance," Garrosh countered.

Arthas perked a brow. "And Vol'jin?"

"Give him to the trolls for all I care," Garrosh said with a shrug.

Muradin and Garrosh started arguing, but Arthas just kept his eyes on Jaina. She didn't speak. She didn't have to. This could be the last time he saw her, with death around each and every corner. She'd stood by him when he seemed doomed to tear the kingdom apart and she still stood by him on the brink of the world's end. If they survived, they'd stand together with their son, looking over whatever was left of the world. He knew what he had to do.

"We save them. Shandris is already fighting, so her first. Then the troll." Silence fell over the battlefield, followed by cries of mutiny and support in equal amounts. "We are one army and we will fight like it! Mutiny now means you are in favor of the end of the world. You have your orders. Carry. Them. Out," Arthas said through grit teeth. The Horde, used to shows of force more than the Alliance were, responded immediately. They broke themselves out evenly, some meant to distract Thrall, some meant to distract Vol'jin, and the rest left to subdue Shandris. She fought the fiercest yet with untouchable speed, arrows that pierced their targets, and seemingly counterattacking every sword, axe, and fist coming her way. Eventually, attrition wore her out. She fell to her knees. Almost at once, Vol'jin started his dance, but the part of the army around him forced him to stop or die. Jaina took the lead on Shandris herself.

"Look into my eyes, Lady Feathermoon. Do you recognize me?" She asked softly.

Shandris opened her eyes, still tainted by lich magic. "Jaina Proudmoore."

"Do you want to kill me, Shandris?"

"No," she replied, though she nodded.

Jaina pursed her lips. "Light magic users are better at this than we are, but the arcane does influence the mind." She started waving her left hand over Shandris' head. A blue light started pulsating from it. "I need you to forget the lies Varian has taught you. I need you to get back to the truth."Jaina could get a glimpse inside Shandris' mind. She was, as always, a warrior. Inside her mind, Shandris, in her tribal garb, bounded around a seemingly endless wave of the undead. They didn't react to Jaina, but Shandris did.

"Be you my ally or be you my next target, human?" she hissed.

Jaina bowed slightly. "Point me at your enemies and I will show you."

"Everything else," Shandris said bluntly. Jaina bowed again and pointed her staff at the encroaching mass of undead. Blasts of water and ice shot out, washing away and freezing ranks after ranks of the enemies.

Jaina looked down at her weapon, startled. "I'd only ever dreamed of doing it like that. Oh! I'm inside a mind! I can do… this?" She pointed her staff at the ground. A colossal water elemental, about ten yards tall, formed and bowed to her. "I think I like arcane magic. Let's get you free of here, Shandris."

"Very well," Shandris replied, eyeballing the massive elemental. "I hope I don't have to use one of those. I prefer to be…" She dove out into the waves of undead, slashing with her weapon wildly. "More physical." She bowed, a dark grin pointed at Jaina.

"Then let's have you take that half and I'll take this half and we'll see if my friend and I can beat you."

"A human beat an elf? Magic beat skill? Not on my watch." Shandris took the high ground and unsheathed as many arrows as she could. Jaina raised her staff. The air around them chilled noticeably.

"Game on."

Shandris blinked a few times. Her eyes were back to normal. "Welcome back, Lady Feathermoon," Jaina said, smiling through sweat.

She got to her feet. "For the record, I won." Just like that she was back in battle, launching volleys of arrows at Vol'jin, pinning him in place. She had done in seconds what the allied forces had failed to do in much more time. "Do your magic, Jaina. I have a meeting with the king." Shandris calmly walked through the chaos, stopping every few steps to launch another arrow at Thrall, who the allied forces were now working on. She disappeared into the temple. Arthas and Garrosh tried to follow her, but every time they got close, Thrall raised a fountain of lava in front of them. Jaina, now significantly exhausted, carried on to the pinned Vol'jin.

"Are you with us, Darkspear?"

Vol'jin's voice was hollow and haunting. "Always. Are ya scared, girlie?"

Jaina smirked. "Never." The spell was much more difficult as Vol'jin was much less willing.

When she opened her eyes, Jaina could barely walk. She leaned on her staff for support as she wandered her surroundings. In the other vision, Shandris was front and center, battling hordes of monsters. Here, Jaina found herself wandering into a quaint troll village. Drums echoed out all around her and the intoxicating aroma of boar on a spit filled her with a sudden hunger. Her feet started moving her towards the sounds and smells. Trolls of all shapes and sizes greeted her warmly, offering her drinks, herbs, and seats at their tables. She politely declined, but the more she did, the more she started to wonder why. This was an awfully beautiful place. She hadn't had boar on a spit since the last campaign she took part in. Well, she shouldn't take part in the drinking or whatever those plants were because she was pregnant, but the rest of it sounded quite nice. Wasn't she looking for someone? "Vol'jin?" she said, barely audible over the drums. The trolls pointed at the biggest, most decorated troll in the middle of the encampment. He was surrounded by food, women, and various treasures, and oddly, he was the only one armed with a great spear decorated in skulls. Even with all of those, his eyes met Jaina's almost instantly.

"'ey dere, girlie. Why doncha 'ave a seat wit' Vol'jin? I can show ya magic ya 'umans ain' nevah seen." He laughed, as did the rest of the trolls. Jaina was repulsed yet compelled. She kept moving towards him, her hips doing that swaying thing she did when she wanted Arthas' attention when she was younger. Oh! Arthas, right. That name rings a bell.

"I would love to, but I'm married," she said, still walking towards him. Was she married? Goodness, it's all so much to remember. As she sat next to Vol'jin, she felt remarkably lighter on her feet than she had in the past several months. Her stomach wasn't feeling funny at all anymore, either. "Maybe I will have that drink," she said, to the cheers of the crowd around her. Vol'jin poured her a large cup of some sort of liquid. She raised it to her lips, when suddenly, everything around them started shaking. None of the trolls seemed to notice, but Jaina certainly did. She put the drink down. "I'll try it a bit later. Why don't we dance?" She found herself getting up on her feet, dragging Vol'jin to his feet by his three-fingered hands. He played coy for a moment, but he definitely found his groove before too long. Jaina swayed and jerked to the music in ways she didn't know she could move, but it certainly seemed to be popular with the crowd. But then, once again, that huge shaking happened. She fell to the ground. Vol'jin kept dancing as if nothing had happened. Her head started to really, really hurt. "Wait… no. Vol'jin, you have to come with me."

"I ain' goin' nowheah, mon! Vol'jin got 'is people, 'e got 'is family, 'e got ev'ryt'in'!" The trolls all cheered again and that's when it dawned on Jaina: Shandris had what she wanted in an eternal battle. Jaina ended it early by intruding. Vol'jin had his family, his people, and a party. Jaina would have to disrupt it. She raised her staff… which she didn't have. Of course not, she was in a party. The rules of Shandris' dream didn't seem to apply here. Nothing she tried to will into being appeared.

"Nevermind. I don't like arcane magic. Too many rules," she uttered. So, she tried it the old fashioned way and raised her hands to call down a blizzard. Once again, nothing happened, but this time the great cauldron in the middle of the village bubbled.

That got Vol'jin's attention. "Ya wouldn't be tryin' anyt'in', wouldja girlie?" He didn't sound amused. The music stopped.

Her skin crawled. She knew what she'd have to do. "I was just trying to get your attention. Do I have it?" She walked forward to Vol'jin, lightly trailing a finger along his arm.

"Ya jus' might, mon." She definitely did.

"Humans prefer privacy when it comes to… diplomacy. Can you get rid of the others?"

He hesitated. She didn't think he would for a moment, but then he said something in his native tongue and everyone dispersed. "Dey all gone now…" he said expectantly.

"That's right they are, and I can't wait to get my hands on you," she said with a purr. He got close. Closer. They were touching. His lips drew closer and closer to her while his fingers began going across her skin. She pulled close… only to dart behind him, kick him in the back of the knee, and take the spear off of his back. Before he could react, she pressed the head of the spear to his neck. "I'm going to need you to listen to me and odds are with this pointed at your neck, you're willing to listen now, right?"

Vol'jin looked equally impressed and enraged. "I don' need no weapon ta kill ya." Purple energies lit up his eyes.

Jaina actually felt a bit of fear, but she wouldn't let it stop her. "And I didn't have to talk to you, I could have mounted your head on this pike and been on my way. Listen to me and we'll both leave here alive." There was a slight twinge of panic in her voice as the dark sky around them started turning a bizarre gold.

"Ya better say somet'in' soon, den." She could hear the rattling of countless snakes around her, undoubtedly being summoned by his magic.

The truth had never failed Jaina before. "You and I are in a dream. Your dream. A very evil human in the real world has taken over your mind and you are serving him now. My people are about to break through and possibly even win, but unfortunately, your magic is so strong we can't get by."

"My magic? So Vol'jin is ya enemy?"
"Not by your choice. We were allies not long ago. Our archers and your spearmen trained together. To great success, I might add." The gold on the horizon had taken up most of the night sky.

"So dis ain' real? Nunna it?"

"None of it, Vol'jin."

"Den why ya feah deat'?" His eyes flashed and the spectral snakes came into view, rearing up and getting ready to strike.

"Because I don't know the rules. This is only the second time I've done this. The first person wanted to come back. You seem happier here."

"If Vol'jin servin' on de outside, den Vol'jin 'appiah 'ere, yeh. My people ain' mean' ta serve. We strong. We proud."

"And out there you are a well-loved leader of the trolls. Your people aren't thriving, no, but no one is. If we win this war, you can start a new chapter. You and your people can take your place in the world and write your own history. But right now—" her voice cracked as the gold was now almost all of the sky, but she regained her composure "—none of us have a future. We have a few hours to fight for it. Since I don't know how this works, I assume you have to wake up on your own. So if you'd kindly do that, I'd appreciate it. I'm pretty sure I'm running out of time."

The golden light began to burn Jaina's eyes. "Ya mon. Vol'jin's goin'."

Jaina blinked a few times, trying to get vision back in her strained eyes. When it came back to her, Vol'jin was still down. Unfortunately, so was Arthas. He was kneeling with a frozen gauntlet wrapped around his neck. "Welcome back, Queen Proudmoore," Varian said in his deep rasp.

"It has been a long time, Varian. How nice to see you," she said, inclining her head. She was pale and sweat was dripping down her face, but if she was going to die, it was going to be on her terms: dignified, polite, and strong. She gave a concerned look to Shandris, who was struggling against thick chains of ice. "I see you're doing well for yourself," she said, turning back to Varian.

Varian snorted. "I remember you all too well. I remember liking you. That's why I'm going to let you save your husband."

"I see. It looks to me like he's doing quite well. He must be tired and you are giving him a chance to rest his knees. Thank you, Varian."

"All these years, Jaina, and you still insist on maintaining your pride. I will break you here and now." Ice cracked and popped as Varian closed his fingers around Arthas' throat. Thin trickles of blood started forming underneath Varian's icicle-sharp fingers. "I want you to beg for your husband's pointless life so that he may continue disappointing his kingdom."

"Continue? He has never been a disappointment, Varian. Come now, you know better than that," Jaina scolded coolly. "Lordaeron has been forging forward in the world since his father stepped down. We now allow women in all forms of the military—have you seen Sally Whitemane in the infantry? She's savage!—there are multiple types of institutions set up for learning, and we haven't lost a major battle in years."

"That changes today," Varian assured her.

"If so, we will continue on with the same grace we always do."

Varian was clearly starting to get annoyed. "I will rip his throat out here and now and raise him against you."

"Your magic is weak. Your greatest tricks came because of proximity and other, stronger people and luck. You can't control someone like him. Not to mention the fact that I've unraveled your little magic twice. They weren't even dead, Varian, just controlled."

"You truly care so little for him that you will watch him die to hold on to your fragile ego?"
Jaina shook her head and tsked. "Oh, dear Varian. He wouldn't want me to beg. I wouldn't want him to beg for me. I'd just want him to look me in the eye so I could tell him I love him one last time." She locked eyes with her husband. They managed to smile at each other, though they both remained silent.

"Pride heralds the end of your world, Jaina. Now you face the wrath of the lost king." The ice started popping again as Varian closed his fingers around Arthas' neck. Jaina didn't take her eyes off of him. She wanted to see every one of the last moments they had.

Drums started playing. Hundreds of feet started stomping on the ground. A purple bubble surrounded Arthas. Jaina realized that Vol'jin had to have come back. She turned to him, an exhausted smile on her face.

"'ey dere, girlie. I'm showin' ya magic ya nevah seen, yeh?" It was far less creepy to hear that now that he was back to normal.

Varian growled as his fist closed uselessly around the dark magic around Arthas. He took up Frostmourne and Gorehowl and started swinging at the bubble. To Jaina's horror, it trembled under each of the blows. Vol'jin's dedication never wavered—he continued dancing and chanting to the spirits as if nothing was happening. The other trolls joined in with reckless abandon trying to protect the human king. After what seemed like a hundred blows, Varian gave up, turning his fury on Vol'jin. "Treasonous coward! You will serve me in death!" He held Gorehowl above his head for just a moment then threw it as hard as he could. Conflict was apparent in Vol'jin's eyes. If he stopped, Arthas would die. If he continued, he was dead. A human was a human, but this king wasn't so bad. He chanted louder and faster, defying his own fate in his last few moments of life.

Jaina saw a third option. She suspended a thick layer of ice around herself and ran in the path of the axe. Vol'jin and Arthas cried out for her in unison, but it was too late. The barrier slowed the axe enough, but it buried itself in Jaina's left shoulder. Varian smirked as Arthas dashed to Jaina. "Instead of killing you, now you simply have no future. Wonderful." Laughing, he walked away. Shandris finally broke free and started launching her newest assault at him. He turned, enraged, and pointed Frostmourne at her. "I'm done toying with you, child."

Shandris bared her teeth. "Child? Patches of leather on my armor are older than your entire bloodline. I have an arrow meant for your heart that I fletched thousands of years ago." She drew it and locked it into her bow. "Come then, child. Show me what you've got." Varian took off after her as she darted around, nimble as ever, launching shot after shot at him.

At the same time, Arthas and Vol'jin were tending to Jaina, who was oddly calm even though the two men weren't. They squabbled over care for her, with Arthas wanting to get her back to her base camp and Vol'jin insisting she not be moved. "Gentlemen," she said softly. They stopped talking. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm also not the top priority right now. Vol'jin, I need you to break Thrall free before his elementals kill any more of our allies. You speak to spirits, yes? So speak to his." She turned to Arthas. "Darling, I need you to mobilize people and finish what you started. We are here to save the world."

"I don't care about the world, Jaina! I care about saving you!" Arthas pled.

"Deep breaths, my love. I need you to do what I ask and I need you to bring Garrosh over here."

"Garrosh? For what?"

"Gorehowl is his birthright and I have secured it for him," she said, sounding a bit too cheery.

"He can't take the weapon out, Jaina! It could unblock the wound and then—"

"Then I'd be in quite a bit of trouble, wouldn't I? Which is why Vol'jin's trolls will be staying with me. They're very skilled healers." Arthas began to protest again, but Jaina shook her head. "Arthas, my heart and soul, you have to go be the king. You can be my husband after you win, okay?"

Arthas shook his head. "No. I'm always your husband. But you're right. Right now, I have to be the king, too." He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "I'm coming back for the lips," he said with a wink.

She gave him as bright of a smile as she could—those were the very same words he said to her for their first kiss. So she returned the favor. "They'll be right here." Arthas walked off. Garrosh had ambled over a few moments before and, for once, had nothing snide to say to the humans.

"Lady Proudmoore," he grunted.

"Look out, Garrosh. That almost sounds like respect in your voice."

"Humans will always be the weakest of Azeroth's species, but a warrior is a warrior. You have earned your death a hundredfold, Jaina."

"Kind of you to say, Warchief, but I'm not going to die. I want you to watch Vol'jin. The second he stands up from the ritual he's doing, take your birthright and do what you do best. Do you understand me?"

Garrosh nodded. "Lok'tar Ogar, Jaina."

"Go with the Light, Garrosh." She closed her eyes and allowed herself to lay her head down for just a moment.

Arthas walked through the desecrated temple. He had been here before, when Darnassus and Lordaeron had started their diplomatic relationship. It shone with an eerie, peaceful light then. Now it was covered in icicles, darkness, and, where the light did manage to pierce through the engulfing darkness, bodies of Varian's enemies. In the center of the temple, Shandris and Varian were fighting. It was clear that Shandris had landed several good shots, as arrows stuck out through broken chunks of ice in Varian's armor. Think, dark blood trickled from the wounds. Varian turned to see Arthas approaching. "Ah, thank you for the entertainment, child. The adults have to talk now." He sent down cascades of ice on Shandris, who deftly moved out of all of them.

"Do you really think that's enough to get rid of me?" Shandris asked incredulously.

"Not at all. I'm not stopping you. I'm trapping you," Varian commented. Right on cue, a large section of the ceiling fell around Shandris, blocking her in. She let out a string of choice obscenities and started clearing through the rubble. "Now then. Where shall we begin?"

"That you've already lost? Your biggest threats were your lieutenants. I have word that Lady Whisperwind killed Malfurion Stormrage. We've already freed Vol'jin, and Shandris could've bested you herself with another couple of minutes. Thrall will be loose in a moment. Now you have me. What do you have that can compare?"

Varian sat in quiet thought for a moment. "Information. I don't just steal souls, I learn from them. The very first one I took was from another world. One that you denied me. There, you were the Lich King. You had no family, no friends, no allies. You killed Sylvanas Windrunner, Uther, and countless others, corrupted Illidan Stormrage, alienated yourself from Jaina, and ultimately, some holier-than-thou, useless, pointless paladin killed you. Jaina eventually lost her mind and tried to let loose a tidal wave on Orgrimmar—that is, our Draka'mar—after Garrosh detonated a mana bomb on Theramore. In that world, I go on to be a hero. My patience and understanding of tactics led us to victory, not just against you, but against Garrosh and countless horrors from across the worlds. Because of your cowardice in this one, look at what your best friend has become." Varian snarled as Arthas didn't bother to response. He took a step forward, and suddenly he was directly in front of Arthas. "LOOK AT ME!"

Arthas spoke quietly. "I see you, old friend. I see you clearly. I truly am sorry I couldn't find you in time to stop this."

Varian snorted. "I thought about it for a while myself, and you know what? I'm not. I would've been a great king of one human kingdom if you would have not messed things up like you always do. Now I have a chance to rule the world. Perhaps I should thank you." Varian exhaled loudly. "And I know just the way. You see, through their souls, I learn secrets. Dear Shandris imparted her millennia of knowledge onto me when I got to break her little mind. One of the first souls I consumed was a construct the likes of which no one on this planet can compare to." Out of nowhere, he let out a lightning fast kick to Arthas' stomach, launching him back across the temple. "Strength. Speed. Wisdom. Cruelty. Perfection. You see, Arthas? Your failure doomed me to greatness. So thank you. Now die." Varian raised Frostmourne and brought it down towards Arthas with unimaginable strength and speed. Arthas only had time to raise his hand. Those golden chains he used so often shot up from the corrupted ground, wrapped themselves around Varian's wrist and held it in place. He struggled against it, the chains creaking with the effort of restraining him. "Really, Arthas? Really?"

Arthas got to his feet and readied his mace. "It worked, didn't it? Remember when we fought together, old friend? It's always a good tactic until it stops working."

"I guess that means it's not a good tactic anymore." With a grunt of effort, Varian broke the chains and finished his attack. Arthas was able to parry the attack with his mace, but he stumbled with the effort. Varian gathered himself and started swinging again. Arthas couldn't risk parrying again or trying to strike back, all he could do was jerk to the side as quickly as he could. His armor started to scar; the cloth of his cloak and sleeves quickly frayed with every near-miss. "Is this how the king of Lordaeron dies? Dancing like child who just heard their first waltz?"
"If you couldn't tell, I'm surviving this way. Oh, Varian! It's just like we're kids again. I know very well I can't possibly out-muscle you, nor could I then. But you couldn't catch me then, either, and you especially can't now."

"And why's that?" Varian asked, continuing to swing-and-miss.

"Oh, my armor. It was a gift from the elven blacksmiths. They made it just like my usual garb," he explained, referring to the usual bulky blue and white armor adorned with eagles, lions, and other symbols of power, "but it's from elven steel. Half the weight of ours. More susceptible to attacks from hammers and the like, but we know you'd have that cursed blade, so even if you do hit me, I'll be fine."

"Fool. This blade will tear through your pathetic elven armor like you were wearing armor of woven grass."

"Not that we'll never know, eh?" Arthas flashed a winning smile at Varian, who noticed that Arthas wasn't even sweating. He could keep this dance up all day. Varian's arms weren't tiring, but it was true that he wasn't able to swing fast enough to catch Arthas. With a grunt, he took off his gauntlets and bracers. He also willed the coat of ice away. It helped a bit—his next swing sheared Arthas' cape from his back. "Oh ho! That's the spirit!" Arthas called out mirthfully. "Just think, you may get my tabard next! Or perhaps my sleeves!" He was right—his tabard ripped open and revealed the ornate breastplate within, then the sleeves, though something unexpected happened when Arthas felt a chill down to his core. He looked down and saw a trickle of blood from a razor thin wound, which then blackened in a corrupted cauterization. Arthas tried to mask his concern, but Varian wore the grin of a hunter standing over wounded prey.

"Thank you for the advice, old friend. Do you have any other recommendations for how to beat you?" Frostmourne glowed in Varian's hand for a moment. He inhaled deeply, his eyes matching the glow of the blade. "Interesting. I see you showed Jaina that little nook in the outskirts of Lordaeron that we used to spar in. I don't think it was meant for that."

"No!" Arthas spat out. "You don't get to know my life. That was meant for my brother who was lost to us quite some time ago. You are his shadow, cowering from the Light."

"I'll take your memories from you, Arthas, and with them, your soul. Frostmourne hungers!" The dance started again, this time with Arthas trying to pour Light energy into the small wound. It burned, which was rarely a good sign. The confidence made Varian reckless. Every time he overcommitted to a strike, Arthas struck back, driving the hilt of his weapon into Varian's exposed skin—mostly his fingers or elbow, with the rare punch to the face to drive Varian's rage even further, which only made him even less in control.

Arthas played him as only he could. "Do you know why you would never be a good king? You don't embrace your allies. The real Varian wanted to reach out and learn from all the races through alliances or conquest. Don't you think Shandris would've aided you had you asked? Thrall was disgraced and needed a home—one you could've given him. A good king builds bridges. Sometimes you must march troops across them, yes, but they are there to bring cultures together. What did you bring but death?"

This clearly pierced through to Varian. "It… It did not start that way. When Gul'dan showed me the truth, I wanted to learn. I wanted to be just. Something happened. Something… different…" He shook his head quickly. "Yes! I learned my place at the top of the world! Too long have we let the orcs live! Too long have we let the elves and their arrogance guide our lives! Humans are at the forefront of this world: we dictate it's pace, we dictate it's future, and by the Light, we will rule it until the last man dies!" He tore his breastplate aside, revealing iced over and pale skin. He would definitely be able to catch Arthas now.

And that's just what he wanted. Varian came charging at him, roaring as he held Frostmourne high. Arthas threw the chains out, which barely slowed Varian down, but it did stop him for a moment. That was long enough. There was a piercing whistle through the air. When it stopped, there were three loud thuds. Varian twitched and stopped moving, falling down to one knee. He got back up slowly with a groan that turned into a chuckle. "That's it? That was it? Three arrows are supposed to keep you alive? For how much longer, I wonder." He gestured and a sheet of ice fell down behind him, knocking the arrows out. "Your millennia old general launches three arrows for the ever so wise king and that's supposed to be it?" Varian shook his head. "Much like the rest of your family, I am disappointed in you. What's next, another speech about relying on your allies?" He raised Frostmourne. Another arrow whistled through the air, piercing through his wrist and stopping him. He cried out in pain and shot a glare back at the rubble that Shandris had cleared. Frost encased his hand, breaking the arrow out. Once free, he raised Frostmourne above Shandris. "Take her, Frostmourne! Take her soul and give me the strength to finish my enemies!" The cavern erupted in blue light. A bizarre, frightening combination of ice and lightning shot to the roof of the temple. Traces of daylight shone in through the hole it created as a huge section of the roof came tumbling down. "You counted on your allies, Arthas. That is what a good king does. But who could they count on?" He turned his attention back on Arthas, walking towards him slowly and waiting for the crash that would end Shandris' life. It never came.

"They can count on their other allies, Varian!" Jaina said. Thrall, Garrosh, and Vol'jin stood with her. They all braced the section of ceiling in their own way—Vol'jin had a shadowy construct, Thrall had a far-less-angry earth elemental, Garrosh held it up with Gorehowl, and Jaina had an entire limb made of ice.

"Ridiculous. Impossible!"

"No, it's a bit indulgent, for sure. Perhaps it's a little overboard, but when I saw how well your armor had been working, I thought it would do. And it does!" Jaina explained. "Speaking of, where is your armor? I understand trying to show off your rather over-the-top physique—for whatever reason, the females in our army typically do the same—but come now. You're in a battle for your life."

"Shut up!" Varian spat out. It dawned on him that the situation hadn't changed. They couldn't very well move, could they? He rounded back to Arthas. "My reign has only just begun!" Arthas barely got his mace up in time to block Frostmourne. He buckled under the weight but struggled up to his feet. The pincushion of wounds on Varian were clearly adding up, so much so that Arthas shoved back and managed to make a few offensive swings. Varian staggered back, avoiding most of the attack. Thrall left the elemental to brace the weight of the rubble and hurried over to Arthas. He placed his hand on the forged steel of Light's Vengeance. "The spirits of air will aid you. That is all I can do against this evil. His army has gone wild. I must return to the frontline. Lok'tar ogar, King Menethil." Thrall made eye contact with Arthas and gave him a nod before retreating to the battlefront. When Varian came back, Arthas met him headlong. Wind enveloped his weapon, making it swing repeatedly, quickly, and as if it weighed nothing. He connected with Varian's chest, arms, and finally face, sending him flying. From the ground, a huge rippling line of frozen spikes erupted around Arthas. He was surrounded and they were closing in fast, too fast for him to react. Suddenly, his vision became clouded and the sound around him became dulled. He was enveloped by a large, purple bubble. The spikes changed direction and went right after Vol'jin.

"'ey mon, dat's de las' time I can do dat fuhya, bruddah. Go do yer 'uman stuff, yeh?" Vol'jin laughed and cartwheeled out, the ice spikes crashing uselessly into the wall without a target. Arthas went back on the offensive, chaining Varian to the ground and unleashing a flurry of wind-aided attacks against his chest and ribs. Varian groaned in pain with every blow, but went back to his roots: he encased himself in a thick layer of ice. Unfortunately, he'd gotten practice and could now move within the protective barrier. Arthas tried to attack again, but his mace bounced harmlessly off of the barrier. Varian smiled at him from behind the protective ice. Arthas attacked relentlessly but managed to only crack a small portion of the impenetrable shield. There was a loud rumbling behind him in the temple. He could see Varian say "Frostmourne hungers," but he couldn't hear it through the ice. The ice retreated from around his arm and Frostmourne, moving instead to hold Arthas in place. Varian brought his arm around and swung at Arthas' neck.

There was a metallic clank and the sound of ice being scraped as Frostmourne was caught and stopped by Jaina's new hand. "There's no soul to feed on inside ice, Varian. Thank you once again for the inspiration."

Arthas looked over at Jaina, awestruck and relieved. "Did you know that was going to work?"

"Oh, no. Not at all. I just had faith that the magic of an archmage could outpace that of a frightened child who was given the power to sprint before he could stand on his own feet. Now, you should—" Her sentence was cut off as she screamed in pain as her arm start turning a pitch black.

"You think your pathetic magic can stop this? You think it can stop me?" He grabbed Jaina around the throat and hurled her across the room.

"NO!" cried out Arthas. Shandris, freed from the rubble and the collapse prevented, leapt at Jaina. Their bodies connected in mid-air, but Arthas couldn't look for now. He could only think about ending this. He attacked Varian's wrist and hand, destroying the bones until he forcibly dropped Frostmourne. The ice retreated from the rest of his body when the sword left his grasp. Arthas looked down at it, a realization dawning on him. He stood over Frostmourne, any attempt Varian made to retrieve it was met with a flurry of attacks. Arthas had him, at last he had an advantage. Varian's magic was weak, just enough to sometimes cause Arthas to almost lose his footing to a sudden patch of frost, but not enough to stop his relentless assault. One final onslaught of attacks had Varian on his back, blackened blood trickling from his mouth. He pulled himself up to his knees and stared right into Arthas' eyes. Nothing happened. Arthas held the mace up for a blow that never came. Despite his rage, tears came. "I… I can't."

Varian laughed mockingly. "All this way. You have your victory in your grasp. Every second you look down at me, more of your people die, another child deprived a parent."

"I refuse to believe you aren't in there. You looked repentant not even a few moments ago. The cursed blade is gone from your hands. Give me my friend back." Arthas reached down, grabbing Varian's shoulders and shaking him. "GIVE ME MY BROTHER BACK!"

Varian's mockery stopped. He spoke quietly. "I was gone the second the orcs got me, brother. The crown, the sword… it just took me further. This had to end with one of us dying."

"I can't!"

"No, you can't. Which is why—"

"—which is why he brought me," came the predatory growl of Garrosh Hellscream. His heavy boots echoed out with each stop. "This is not for the Horde. This is not for the future. This is for my father, you pathetic wretch."

Outside, suddenly, the battle stopped. The undead elves stopped in the tracks and surrendered with a look of confusion. The hostilities came to a halt with a loud cry victory. Hugs were shared. Tears were shed. They could go home.

Epilogue: One Year Later

Draka'mar looked much different than it had before The Great Union. The bazaar was still thriving, but now there was a constant presence in the city. The Black Scar, Garrosh's army, was a larger force than orcs had ever mustered. Entire families swore eternal generations of loyalty for him for killing the fallen king. Though warchiefs never wore a crown, Garrosh had the broken helm that Varian wore up until his death melted down—which was no small feat and required a trip to an active volcano in Un'goro—and added to the blade of Gorehowl. Ever since, it seemed to glow an eerie shade of purple. On this day, he simply wanted to purchase a kodo steak, but he couldn't leave his command hut without being swarmed by countless new orcs, trolls, and tauren pledging their life to him. They all spoke the same platitudes they always did, but one had an interesting question.

"Warchief," she said, "I pledge my life and blade to you, but what does one honored with the title of Black Scar do since we can't attack the elves?"

Garrosh stopped, smirking at her. "What is your name, woman?"

"Zaela, warchief. I have come far to pledge my blade and blood."

"It is true. We cannot march against the pathetic elves while they rebuild so that our grandchildren's grandchildren can have conquests," he confirmed, nodding. "And out of respect to the human warrior Jaina Proudmoore, I have agreed to leave Theramore alone. But the dwarves lay claim to Blackrock Mountain, an area rich with the ore that has kept our warriors armed and protected for generations. I say it's time to remind them who was there first, don't you?" The new devotees cheered, none louder than Zaela. Garrosh ordered a second steak for that night.

"Do you ever shut up?" Sylvanas asked.

"I will when I can be silent in my own city," Kael'thas shot back.

"My sister's grip on Silvermoon is too strong, Sun King. We can't charge in and lose even more people. The Kirin Tor have been very understanding so far."

Bolvar nodded. "And Stormwind as well as Lordaeron have offered permanent refuge. For that matter, your magisters can call Theramore home. There are options, your majesty."

"Stop trying to look good in front of your little crush. No elf wants to share a home with a human." He looked down over the battleplan again. They had no pockets of resistance anywhere near Silvermoon.

"No matter how many times you look at it, the facts won't change, Kael'thas," Valeera said, unamused. "The smart call is to wait. They'll get greedy and leave the city or we'll find a new home."

"That is not the smart call. What happens if they start trying to manipulate the Sunwell, hm? What happens then?"

"We all get to have freakishly green eyes?" Kael'thas threw his ink bottle at Valeera, who moved out of the way. "Very mature."

Kael'thas pouted a moment. "Neither Stormwind nor Lordaeron were willing to house Windrunner, correct?"

Bolvar nodded and began to speak, but Sylvanas spoke up first. "I am content in Dalaran. Their arcane archers are competent, if not up to our standard. With my help, they may be a real fighting force."

"Just a force," Kael'thas said with a sigh. "The Kirin Tor has pledged neutrality."

"They have, yes. But my archers are called The Silver Spikes. They are not the Kirin Tor, nor are they neutral," Sylvanas said with a smirk. She looked over at Bolvar expectantly, who shifted in his seat.

"The uh, knights I'm training are, uh, also… willing to commit."

Kael'thas looked positively overjoyed. "Perk up then, man! We have a chance at this!"
"I'm a general, sir. Going against the orders of my king isn't exactly something I'm used to."

Sylvanas sauntered across the room and planted a steamy kiss right on his lips, in front of everyone. "Then take orders from your queen."

It was rather odd advice for Tyrande to give. For the past year, she'd been encouraging every man and woman of her race to procreate to save themselves as a species, but she knew she never would. It had worked—there were now almost 2000 Kaldorei in Darnassus. Only The Unseen and Sentinels had returned largely whole. As a part of the diplomatic measures between Draka'mar, Lordaeron, and Darnassus, many other disciplines of combat and day-to-day life were being taught by humans, trolls, and dwarves to elves who wanted to learn. In fact, a tauren named Hamuul Runetotem (the children enjoyed calling him Ha-moooo-l) sat at the head of the Cenarion Enclave now. Elune's Forgotten were welcomed back to the city with open arms, but they exiled themselves out of the shame of what they had done. They took up residence in the ruins of Auberdine, the burned out crater a reminder of what they had all lost.

Tyrande and Illidan sat together, leaning into each other with their toes in the water of the newest dock that would bring boats in from Lordaeron. He had been somewhat lost with the battle over. There was no new battle to fight. There was no greater enemy to fell. Their silence had lasted hours until Vanessa finally ran up alongside them. "What are you guys up to?"

"Thinking," Illidan said plainly.

"About what?"

Tyrande got something out of her satchel. "About if I should give this to you now or when you are old enough to start training with Illidan." She held up Edwin's old mask. "I had considered adding our crest on it since you are our family, too, but I thought it would be more appropriate to have it as is."

"Yes," Illidan added, "And though your life is your own, I would be lying if I said I knew how to be a father, but I would be lying further if I said I was content with just sitting back and letting you go into a world of piracy. Take your father's mask, but forge your own path."

"Oh, I will," she said, gently wrapping the mask around her own jaw. "I'm definitely going back out on the seas, but I'd like to explore. I'd… I'd like to go around the world and keep all the people in it free. That's what my father would have wanted. That's what I want, too. People deserve to live free and die free."

Tyrande smiled at her. "He would be proud. I know I am. But that is quite an undertaking. If people aren't free, you can't just free them. You'd have to have an army."

Illidan's ears perked up. "Y… Yes. Yes, you would. And you don't want to just hire some privateer, you want to have a captain who has been on the seas before. I spent a few decades searching for the perfect place to train in private. I can show you islands that only the natives know about."

Vanessa's smile seemed to pierce through her mask.

Tyrande tsked, but knew there was no stopping them. "But not any time soon. We must oversee our people coming back, after all."

"We?" Vanessa asked hopefully.

"Of course. Our people once populated every corner of this world. We might as well pick a corner and start there."

"The Kaldorei need their queen," Vanessa said.
"We have no queen. Shandris now trains the Sentinels. I speak for Elune and at this time she is… proud of her people. We didn't give up when we had every reason to. Besides, with elven speed and craftsmanship, we can come back every few adventures and see how everyone is doing. I have faith the goddess will tell me if we need to come back sooner."

"Well, I know how to steer a ship, but I don't know how to fight," Vanessa added worriedly.

"Your father was the greatest fighter I've known," Illidan said. "I will teach you myself."

The excitement was back in Vanessa's voice. "But for now we should stay here, right?"

Tyrande nodded. "Yes, for now, our place is here. And forever, our place is together." Vanessa kicked her boots off and sat next to them, her toes barely touching the water's surface.

"When will these people get tired of hearing my nonsense?" Arthas asked.

Jaina walked alongside him and ran her fingers along the back of his neck—her icy ones. He jumped and shivered, throwing a fake mutinous glare at her. "When it stops effecting their day to day lives, of course. You know how this city works. Anytime anyone with a title does anything, the people must know."

"I don't even have anything to say. It's been a year since the war ended. And, what? The dwarves are still drunk, the elves are back in hiding, and the Horde think you're some amazing warrior magician." She perked a brow at him. "Oh, stop. They aren't wrong. I just don't really have anything to say. We killed a few random undead some incredibly stupid necromancer fiddled with yesterday. That's about—"

"Wait, necromancer?"

"Yes, why?"

"What kind of undead?"

"Weird ones, now that you mention it. Great beasts sewn together out of other beasts. Men with too many arms, each one holding a weapon."

Jaina pinched the bridge of her nose. "I have to go."

"What? Now?"
"Yes, now. That was the work of Kel'thuzad. He shocked the world by becoming evil with a name like that. He's been trying to fire up the old Scourge war machines. Say, did you capture any of the things you were fighting?"

"Why would we possibly try to capture a ten armed man holding ten axes?"

"Nevermind. See you when I see you." She leaned up and kissed him before opening a portal. "As for the speech? Just tell them what you're thinking." She stepped through with a wink and disappeared. With her gone, he couldn't delay anymore. He exited the throne room and walked out to the city center. The clamoring of the crowd stopped abruptly.

"Citizens of Lordaeron, esteemed guests, allies, and nobles," he began, "Today marks one year since we lost a great friend and gained many allies. You do not need me to remind you of that. Many of us can never forget the honored dead we buried. If you didn't lose anyone, consider yourself lucky, but honor those you didn't know because they fought for each and every one of you. All we have anymore is reminders of that time. The cursed blade Frostmourne sits in an enchanted chest in our throne room as a lesson to those who seek power without being able to control it. Honorary Prince Anduin Wrynn must grow up without parents, but that puts the burden on each and every one of you to show him the citizen he must one day become. He may very well rule alongside your princess, Varina Tyrande Menethil, someday."Anduin made a face that definitely translated into "ew", much to the delight of the crowd. Arthas hesitated. "In truth, I, like many of our warriors, am lost. This peace we all worked so hard for has brought prosperity to us all, but I am a protector and we have nothing to protect you from. Anyone who gives work to a veteran of The Great Union will be pardoned of any and all taxes, so long as they remain in your employment." That gave him a fairly loud round of applause. "So, if any blacksmith is out for an apprentice, I know someone who may be looking for work." More laughter, more applause. "The most important thing is to carry on, every single day, with the goal of making our kingdom a little bit better. Thank you all for your time, and enjoy your—"

"YOUR MAJESTY!" came the booming voice of the town herald. "YOUR MAJESTY! THE ORC, THRALL, RETURNS WITH A TROLL!"

"Let them in, man. Let them in."

They weren't waiting for permission. They ran to the center of the city, dirty, bloodied, and tired. "King Menethil! The Greymane Wall has been breached! The necromancer Kel'thuzad let loose thousands of undead and they tore it down. Now feral worgen, undead monstrosities, and twisted elements themselves rise up in attack! They're aligned with the Silvermoon wretched in some sort of twisted crusade!"

Vol'jin nodded as Thrall spoke. All eyes were on him after the orc finished. "Uh… what he said, mon. We try ta bring peace, but, well, it ain' goin' well, is it?"

Arthas smiled and held his mace high. "To arms, soldiers of Lordaeron!"